


The Sky Above Us Shoots to Kill

by ragtags



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Kidnapping, Betrayal, Bruises, Choking, Confusion, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Sad, Sadness, Smooching, Violence, alludes to sex, angsty, content warning, cw choking, non descriptive nsfw, slight nsfw, trigger warning choking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags
Summary: “You killed Michael,” Crowley manages through a dry mouth. Aziraphale pauses, contemplating a moment, before returning to the binds around Crowley’s arms. He’s silent, and Crowley looks past him now to the dark stain on the floor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goober](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goober/gifts).



> For @goober

Somewhere in the middle of an almost completely dark room, a demon sits. Crowley stirs, his body bound to a wooden chair with golden glowing rope tying his hands and feet together, and just beyond his chair is a thick ring of salt. Whoever had managed to get a hold of him wasn’t planning on letting him go.

Fuck, fuck fuck, he thinks, struggling against the divine rope. It burns, searing through his clothes and into his skin. The demon lets out an anguished hiss as he finds himself resigning to whatever fate it is that’s to be bestowed upon him.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Down the hallway comes the sound of footsteps, each one more confident than the last. Crowley’s head rises, teeth baring as he readies himself for a fight (though he isn’t sure how he’s going to get to that point being tied up) or quite really for whatever is about to be thrown his way.

When the door to his holding cell swings open, the demon finds himself not as ready as he thought. The figure snaps a finger and a single overhead light turns on, and Crowley can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen as the Archangel Michael strides in to the room.

She approaches, and Crowley lets out another hiss as he pulls against his restraints. He needs to get out of here, and fast. She stops mid stride; her smile is cruel, crueler than what he’d ever remembered, even when he was still an angel.

“Well, well,” she begins and he immediately stiffens up, holding a breath he doesn’t really need to hold because he doesn’t need to breathe, but still he holds it and watches her carefully. “Isn’t this just a little gift?” Michael offers a soft chuckle and Crowley can feel the restraints burning against his skin as he tries to wriggle himself free.

Before she can do anything, there’s a loud noise, and then there’s heat. Crowley’s head snaps to the side as the room, once dark and drab now fills with the most brilliant golden white light. He lets out a small scream as the sound of a thousand whips cracking all at once fills the room and quite nearly bursts his ear drums. Only when the light begins to fade and electricity licks at the sides of the walls and up into the ceiling does he bother adjusting his head to look at what’s just happened. There, standing in the doorway is another figure, arm outstretched and pulsing with golden electricity. The demon squints for a moment before his eyes find themselves widening as he looks from the silhouetted figure to the dark spot on the floor where Michael had previously just been standing. It takes a moment to register what exactly happened, but he doesn’t need the full moment as the figure snaps their fingers and the entire room is illuminated with light.

“Crowley!” breathes Aziraphale as he rushes across the room, kicking open the circle of salt with his foot. The demon is shell shocked, yellow snake eyes looking at the angel whose face is a mix of worry, fear, and general anxiety. There’s sweat on Aziraphale’s brow- had he ever seen sweat on him before? The angel is fumbling- shaky hands trying so hard to gently remove the ropes that are binding his friend to the chair- and muttering softly to himself.

“Sorry, what?” Crowley sighs, head lowering as he tries to focus on what exactly Aziraphale is saying.

“I said,” comes the exasperated reply as the angel manages to break through the bindings on Crowley’s feet, “we must move quickly. I don’t, I don’t know how many more there are but this is not--”

“You killed Michael,” Crowley manages through a dry mouth. Aziraphale pauses, contemplating a moment, before returning to the binds around Crowley’s arms. He’s silent, and Crowley looks past him now to the dark stain on the floor. 

“Completely obliterated her,” he muses in a far off tone that lands somewhere between in awe and wistfulness. Aziraphale ignores him as he manages to get the ropes undone.

“Can you walk?” the angel asks him, and it takes Crowley a moment to rise and settle on aching limbs before he nods. Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath that he doesn’t need and nods, grabbing Crowley by the hand and turning to lead them both out. Whatever he’s done, Crowley realizes, it hasn’t sunken in to that perfect angelic head of his- not yet.

They make their way to the top floor landing with Crowley’s fingers tightly gripping the back of Aziraphale’s jacket as they ascend the final flight of stairs. He doesn’t realize just how difficult walking could be after having divine rope tied around your ankles for Heaven only knows how long. Aziraphale has been tense the whole walk up, but as they closed the space between them and the door, Crowley can’t help but notice the slow but obvious relaxation in the angel’s facial features. Of course, it’s something that doesn’t last long.

The door that leads to the outside- to their freedom swings open; Gabriel smiling with his perfect teeth and perfect hair and perfect suit, arms wide open as he meets the pair at the entrance.

“Aziraphale,” comes the overly monotone voice of the archangel as he shoots them a look that clearly reads, ‘the gig is up’. His hands slap down to his sides as he takes a step towards them, “you didn’t really think you’d get away with--”

Gabriel doesn’t finish his sentence. Aziraphale’s free hand is extended and golden lightning is once more shooting out from his fingertips. All at once the room lights up again with heat pulsing through the room- and as the light dims and electricity runs up the walls, Gabriel is no longer standing in front of them. Crowley’s mouth hangs open as his head turns to look at Aziraphale, whose eyes are wide with fear at what he’s just done. The demon resigns to saying nothing, only pulling the angel forward towards the door.   
They both make a point to avoid the dark, still smoldering spot where Gabriel once stood as they make their exit.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to get back to the bookshop before Aziraphale, on shaking legs, stops and has to take a moment. Crowley leans against the door, rubbing his wrists as the angel slowly begins to pace back and forth. 

There’s just silence. Silence, and a lot of pacing from Aziraphale. Crowley watches, grimacing at the sight. “Guess I should say thanks,” he finally muses after a long while. Aziraphale pauses mid stride, turns to look at him, gives a curt and brief nod before resuming.

“Gotta say, good timing.” Crowley continues on, shrugging up his shirt sleeves to better assess his wounds.

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a look that even the demon can understand is a simple ‘shut up’. Crowley only smiles wider as he stares at the angel in astonishment.

“I-I-I’ve never, I’ve never done that before,” Aziraphale gasps, pausing in place as adrenaline and anxiety begin to course through his corporeal form once more. He’s shaking, and he’s all together terrified over what he’s just done. 

“Never killed someone?” Crowely hums still smiling.

“No. Never. I- Well, I- Are, are you okay?” Aziraphale deflects, walking over to his friend and examining the wounds Crowley sustained. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley responds, the smile growing across his face. It seems for both of them, the reality of the situation has just begun to set in.

“The real question is,” Crowley hums, closing the space between them, “are you okay? You did just smite your bosses. Both of them.” He pauses. “For me.”

“Oh. Oh yes, yes I- well, I mean, they were being very bad angels, weren’t they?” Aziraphale gives him an overly forced smile as if smiling even half heartedly will somehow make this whole situation less...well, less bad. Crowley tries to match this expression but his mind is preoccupied reliving and rewinding the events that have only just happened. When he blinks back into reality, Aziraphale is holding his hand and gently running his perfectly manicured fingers over the open wounds that dig deep into Crowley’s flesh. There’s a look of guilt washing over the angel’s face as he examines just exactly what’s been done, what he himself has just done, and what’s been done to Crowley. These would be markings that would unfortunately never heal properly, not even with a miracle. 

There’s suddenly a growing a pit in the center of Aziraphale’s stomach and his blue eyes look up to meet the yellow eyes of Crowley. The adrenaline is slowly wearing off of him and is being replaced by an endless sea of panic.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, tries to formulate some kind of sentence about what he’s just done, but even as the cogs in his brain begin to move, there just doesn’t seem to be anything coming out. Crowley has never seen him like this before- has never seen him look so terrified, so alone. He doesn’t like this look, not one bit. If he could miracle it away, he would, but he can’t and so he’s resigned to staring at an angel whose going through what can only be described as an internal ‘moral debate’ argument with himself. 

“Come on,” Crowley finally says, removing his wrists from the angel’s grasp. They sting, but Crowley can’t help but wonder if it’s because of the angel’s touch or if it’s the lingering burn of the rope. He takes Aziraphale by the shoulders and twirls him around. “Time to have a sit and process.” 

He leads the angel into the back room, settling him down on the sofa while he turns to fetch some wine, grabbing a Medoic 1988 and two glasses, pouring them both a full glass each. Crowley hands one to the angel who takes it gingerly and begins sipping through shaky hands. Crowley’s smile has yet to falter.

Aziraphale gives him half a glance before finally turning to him, a look of utter confusion slapped across his face. “Why on Earth are you smiling, dear? This is very serious business! I’ve- I’ve rebelled!” Crowley’s smile widens. He takes another sip.

“You did,” he replies, his hands gripping the glass a little too tightly, “Why did you do it? Why me?”

“Well, well my dear fellow I--”

“No, but seriously, Angel. Why me? How did you even know where I was?” A pointed question but Crowley finds himself most intrigued.

Aziraphale takes a long sip of his wine before setting it down. He doesn’t speak, merely points with one solitary finger up into the air. Crowley’s smile fades as he shrugs. “I’m not following.”

“Telecom,” Aziraphale finally says, voice still shaking, “they were planning to, uhm, find several demon camps, and, uhm, eradicate them.” his voice drops towards the end.

“Eradicate?” hisses the demon with surprise. The angel just nods, lips tight. “Thought angels liked to play fair. You’d think trying to take out the enemy secretively would be something my lot did.”  
“Yes, yes I would have assumed so as well,” comes the low, delayed reply of the angel. 

“You knew where they were keeping me?”

“No. No, nothing of the sort. I went to your flat in an attempt to warn you. I was just, well…” Aziraphale pauses, setting his glass down in between his hands, “I was late. I got there just in time to see two figures carting you off. I...I didn’t know at the time who they were. But I followed them to the old building on the outskirts of town and I--”

“You saved me.” Crowley hums.

“Yes, yes I rather think I did.” His reply is soft, distant. Something inside Crowley’s chest pounds and for a second he wonders if maybe he’s become human, and if the pounding is where his heart would be, if he had a human heart.

Silence fills the room once more, but this time something has changed. Crowley sets his glass down on the desk behind him, rising up and crossing what little space is already between them. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make this better. He takes Aziraphale’s glass and moves it to the side, placing it next to his own before returning to look the angel in the face. 

There’s a beat, just a moment of silent staring between both of them before Crowley’s hands lift up and gently cup Aziraphale’s face. The angel doesn’t flinch but his eyes flutter up to meet the yellow serpentine eyes of his friend. They’re searching, looking, hoping that this touch is okay- it’s something new, it’s something primal in Crowley; something almost human. He’s seen humans do things like this before on the television- some dramatic event happens and the main characters are talking it out and then the lead starring male swoops in for a kiss, knocking the lead female actress off her feet as they share in a moment of passion. This, of course, isn’t that. It’s not a movie where blissful happiness can overcome the horrors of what’s just been done, but Crowley wonders if perhaps just maybe it’ll make up for the lack of words neither of them can come up with in regards as to why the angel stuck his neck out for a demon. 

“Cro-Crowley, I--” Aziraphale begins, and that’s all the moment he needs. Crowley leans in, just a tad and gently places a kiss on the top of his forehead. It’s without a doubt completely out of character, but this isn’t a romance, and Crowley isn’t overly affectionate like that. So instead he goes in for a forehead kiss, allowing his lips to linger on the angel’s forehead for a moment too long before pulling back.

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley hasn’t seen since 1941- if Crowley could put into words what that look was, he would tell you that it looks as though Aziraphale gazed too long in to the nebula and that his eyes shimmered like the endless void of stars Crowley had once spent so long on creating. Aziraphale’s face has gone from shock, guilt, and worry to something entirely new: amazement, confusion, awe. It strikes Crowley in a way he’s not expecting and as he begins to pull away the angel is there pulling him back with fingers laced through the demon’s tie. All at once the world feels like it’s crashing down around them again as their lips meet in soft, gentle, tender little kisses. It’s new, it’s riveting, it’s-- Is Aziraphale crying? Crowley pulls back and looks at the angel whose redder in the face than he’s ever been and there are tears welling up in his eyes and slowly sliding down his cheek on to Crowley’s hands. There’s a moment of panic on Crowley’s face as the angel opens his eyes and stares longingly into the demon’s own. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, nervous that he’s done something wrong. Aziraphale is crying but there’s a smile on his face and it’s confusing and it’s heartbreaking and it leaves Crowley only wanting to do it more; scoop him up and carry him off to somewhere, anywhere that was safer than his bookshop. Somewhere they could be together, without the fear of God or the Angels or Demons watching over them. There’s a feeling of loss Crowley has never felt before and as he tries to begin processing it, Aziraphale is pulling him in again, this time it’s the angel pushing in for a kiss much firmer than what has been done previously. All at once they’re falling again, endlessly in to soft peppering kisses followed by ones that are much deeper and much more meaningful. Crowley scoots himself on to the sofa, hands palming Aziraphale’s sides as he holds himself upright while straddling the angel on the seat cushions. Aziraphale smiles in between kisses and it’s enough to make Crowley’s entire being burst into flames. He can feel a fire burning in his stomach and if this unspoken thing is enough to take the worry away from that angel then damn them all to Heaven he would do it. 

Crowley leans in to Aziraphale now, peppering kisses on his forehead and cheeks and lips and then on his neck. The angel’s breath hitches in a way Crowley’s never heard before, and he likes the sound of it. Aziraphale’s hands manage to wander inside Crowley’s coat, thumbing over the areas on his back where his wings would have normally been, savouring it all, and it’s as if time has stopped for them as they begin to explore things they never thought they would explore when a sudden noise tears them apart. 

It’s a loud cracking noise followed by a booming thunderous noise. Atop Aziraphale’s desk sits a smoldering piece of paper. The pair pause, Crowley slowly pulling back and getting off of the angel as he goes to pick it up- hissing as the paper burns his fingers. Aziraphale is on his feet, flustered and red, fixing his lapels and bowtie before going to address it. They give each other a knowing look- the letter is addressed from Heaven. Aziraphale inhales sharply and picks it up, opening the parchment and reading. It takes a moment but the angel’s facial expressions go from resignation to shock, and then to surprise and then confusion. Aziraphale clasps his hand to his face and looks up at Crowley.

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley asks, swallowing thickly as his tongue runs over his lips trying to savour their final moments.

“It’s a message from Gabriel,” Aziraphale says winded, body shaking as he sets the note down. “They want a word about me using my powers to smite two creatures tonight.” The look of abject horror on his face is evident and even Crowley feels lost in the weeds.

“But didn’t you--?”

“Apparently not. I don’t know...I don’t know who they were.”

They both stand in silence, staring down at the paper that lays open on the desk. Aziraphale swallows hard and looks to Crowley who is equally stunned into silence.

“Well then,” Aziraphale finally says, breaking the silence, “I suppose we better check in then.”

Crowley passes him a look, extending his hand out. Aziraphale pauses for a moment before taking hold of it with his own hand. They smile at each other momentarily, drawing each other closer. There’s a moment of silence.

“Tomorrow, then,” Crowley hums, pressing his head back down into the small divot in Aziraphale’s neck. The angel inhales sharply, a hand coming up to gently grab at the back of the demon’s neck.

“Yes,” he concludes, “tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Good. Maybe you won’t be so useless after all, and we can use this to...help us forget your little ‘Failed Armageddon’ mishap.” He gives Aziraphale a curt smile, another strong pat on the shoulder, and then walks away._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Aziraphale stands in the middle of a large, empty room, and covers his face with his hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I wasn't expecting to do a follow up but HERE WE ARE I GUESS? I wrote this and realized that there's going to need to be...easily a part three and maybe part four but who knows. Maybe I can get it done in three. Thank you guys so much for all the love and support for this fanfic; it means a lot! Going to hopefully get this thing done is a max of 10 chapters (this was only gonna be a one shot but WHOOPS)

_Forty-eight hours earlier..._

 

Somewhere in a room that’s far too bright for its own good sits an angel. Aziraphale is alone; fidgeting. The room is empty save for one desk, two sets of chairs (one of which is currently being occupied by Aziraphale), and one tree fern.

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting, but it’s been awhile. There was an urgent message that had come through at around lunch time and it demanded he attend an audience with the Seven. They are, of course, the Seven Archangels (not to be confused with your run of the mill archangel that the principality was originally in charge of) and this is the first time since Armageddon that they wish to speak with him. Aziraphale shifts awkwardly in his seat, adrenaline pumping through his corporeal veins as he tries not to imagine what horrific things are about to happen him; surely because they know now that he faked his own execution.

 

“Ah! Aziraphale!” comes the loud, boisterous voice of Gabriel as he strides in through the door, giving the principality a somewhat gentle (though not really) punch in the arm. “Glad you could make it.” He smiles and every last detail of him is perfect, and it makes Aziraphale’s stomach lurch. He doesn’t much appreciate the buddy boss moves, but he knows it’s not his place to say anything. The Archangel sits in the only other empty seat; soon to walk in is Raphael, Uriel, and Michael. Aziraphale gives them all a small smile and a tiny wave, though internally he feels as though he’s about to burst.

 

“We can begin without the others,” Michael says and when she turns to look at Aziraphale he can’t help but feel his blood run cold. Is this how it’s going to end? He tries not to think about it as he straightens up in his chair.

 

“You’ve caused us...a lot of trouble,” Gabriel begins, scooting forward in his seat, hands interlocking as he leans against the desk. “And quite frankly, we aren’t sure...what you even are anymore.” He vaguely gestures at all of Aziraphale and the angel can’t help but feel self conscious. _Soft_ , Aziraphale thinks to himself but tries his best to ignore the insult. “But also right now that’s the last of our concerns.” He laughs, and Aziraphale fails to see the joke. Gabriel reclines, his hands unlocking as he settles in for what’s about to be either the longest or shortest meeting they’d ever have.

 

“Since you and your… “buddy” Crowley decided to stop Armageddon,” the Archangel begins, finger quoting the word buddy, “things have been...well, things have been just a gosh darn mess up here!” Again, Gabriel chuckles and Aziraphale fails to understand the humor. But he offers an anxious smile nevertheless.

 

“We’ve had some renegades,” Michael begins and her tone matches Gabriel’s in that she’s clearly unimpressed with how things have been going, “on both sides.”

 

“Oh, I see…” comes the soft, quiet voice of Aziraphale. His hands ball up into fists- here it comes.

 

“The other side claims that they have sent out agents to reclaim their...loose numbers. We would like you to find and retain our renegades,” Michael says though there’s a strong undertone of doubt in her voice that makes Aziraphale reposition himself in his seat.

 

“I’m- I’m sorry?” Aziraphale balks, sitting even further upright as he looks to the group that has summoned him. “You want me to...you want me to…”

 

“Yes. Find our renegade angels and obtain them. Bring them to Heaven.” Gabriel’s voice is flat even though it still has so much bounce and energy in it. This time it’s Gabriel who fails to see what’s so hard to understand about these orders.

 

“But I- but I,” Aziraphale begins again and Gabriel rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes. You committed treason. And we sentenced you to death. And yet here you are! Perfectly up and about. If we can’t kill you, it’s because God must have something else for you in store that She hasn’t...conveyed to us...yet.” He mumbles something under his breath and Michael gives him a stern but agreeable look. The angel shifts in his seat uncomfortably. If the Archangels are still made unaware of his ‘agreement’ with the demon Crowley but God hasn’t put in her two cents then he takes the gift and decides it better to say nothing at all on the matter. After all, if God hadn't looked upon Her principality and seen him worthy of being cast out then perhaps he’s done everything She’s planned. Somewhere inside Aziraphale’s chest he feels something pound for just a second, and realizes that he’s relieved.

 

“So what would you have me to do?” Aziraphale finally squeaks out after a moment, and the group of Archangels turns to look at him. Gabriel and Michael both smile now.

 

“Retrieve them. Bring them home. They’re somewhere on Earth but…” Michael begins.

 

“...But we don’t know Earth as well as you,” Gabriel continues and this time when he smiles there’s a strong inkling of sarcasm and anger behind his perfect eyes, “so you might as well make yourself useful and accept the mission. Consider this your...redemption arc, Aziraphale.”

 

The principality shifts again in his seat and swallows thickly. Redemption? Would this truly be redemption? Something feels terribly off about the whole thing, but he finds himself nodding silently in agreement to take it anyway.

 

“There’s a chance these runaways are going to be looking for demon camps,” Uriel chimes in, her own voice equally as monotone as Michael’s, “and since you’re friends with one of them, perhaps it would serve you best to use him as bait. Lure them out.”

 

“I-I-I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale gasps, mouth hanging open as Uriel gives him a look. She feigns the smallest of smirks, but it’s lost on the angel as he stares at all of them with an open mouth.

 

“I don’t, I don’t think that’s fair to use him--”

 

“He’s going to probably be a target anyway,” Gabriel sighs, “since he’s the other half of the reason we aren’t at War.”

 

Aziraphale blinks, and Gabriel pauses before sitting up right again and looking at the angel.

 

“Come to think of it,” he begins, a twinkle in his eye as he starts to theorize, “ _you_ also played a part in it. Who knows, maybe you won’t have to use him at all if they come for you first! Wouldn’t that be lucky?”

 

There’s a moment of silence between the group, but it quickly fades as Gabriel pushes his chair back and stands up.

 

“Right! So! Good talk. Wonderful as always to see you, Aziraphale. Remember, bring them home. No need to use violence. You know how us angels are.” His smile is still plastered to his face and somewhere deep inside of Aziraphale’s gut he can feel the subliminal messages being shot in his direction. It’s funny, in a twisted sort of way, that he’s reminded to not use violence, considering his track record of kills since the time the Earth began (hint: it was 0, and has remained 0 up until this point) and the fact that every angel in that room knew the statistics of Aziraphale and violence.

 

The principality gives a small nod as he stares dead ahead, not wanting to look any of them in the eye as they begin to file back out. Gabriel pauses next to him, giving him another ‘buddy punch’ to the arm before walking out. Aziraphale sits there for another ten minutes as he tries to process what he’s just been told.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When Aziraphale returns to Heaven with a strongly worded letter in hand, he finds himself standing somewhere in the center of a room that’s not as brightly lit as the last, but still equally as bright. This time, he arrives with strange markings littering his neck; black, blue, and red. A few angels that see him on the way begin to chatter idly to themselves what that might mean, but their harmless words are nothing compared to the state of the angel’s face; red and embarrassed.

 

This time, Aziraphale doesn’t have to wait long; Gabriel is saddling up next to him with a smaller than usual smile, but when the Archangel sees the bruises on the angel’s neck, his hand is balled once more into a fist and he’s buddy punching Aziraphale in the arm again.

 

“Look at you!” he hums, almost pleased to see the principality sporting wounds, “Knew you weren’t so soft after all!” Aziraphale jumps with a start in reaction to the punch. He rubs his arm as Gabriel walks around to face him, the smile still there even though it’s gone back to being less of a smile and more of a ‘this is an actual business meeting, angel’ smile.

 

“So! How’s it going?” Gabriel gives him that look, that single, solitary eyeball-popping sarcastic look and it takes every last ounce of Aziraphale to not collapse on the floor in a heaping mess over the extremely long night he had murdering his boss; err, well, maybe not his boss boss, but someone that looked like his boss.

 

“Fine. All fine.” he manages to reply with a shaky voice, staring long and hard at the Archangel in front of him. Gabriel’s smile falters as he adjusts his stance and procures a clipboard out of thin air. Aziraphale shifts on his feet as he looks at it knowingly.

 

“It...seems you haven’t located our renegades yet?” Gabriel questions, raising a brow as he reads over the report in his hand and glancing up to look at the principality.

 

“Ahh- well, I--” the angel begins, but Gabriel cuts him off mid sentence.

 

“But it looks like you got into a bit of a tussle last night...Used your ability to smite, I see. Smote twice, in fact!” Now Gabriel is looking at him with that thin lipped smile, waiting for an answer.

 

“Well, you- well you see, I…” comes the nervous reply of Aziraphale as he tries to make sense of it himself, wondering just how much the Seven actually know. Gabriel begins to hum as the angel stalls, looking back down at the papers and flipping them back and forth.

 

“Looks like-- looks like you got the demons that the other side was looking for. Well. Some of them, anyway. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

 

“I’m- I’m sorry, what?”

 

“Mm, we had some angels go out last night to where the spots lit up on our globe where you, you know, decided to let loose.” The Archangel makes a full body gesture in what would have looked like a bad attempt at a standing in place dance, arms spreading out in a somewhat sarcastic manner before pulling himself back in to a normal standing position. If Gabriel sees the confusion and abject horror on Aziraphale’s face, he doesn’t comment on it. “Had to make sure you didn’t go playing ‘God’ with our own runaways. You know that killing another angel is, of course, the single sure fire way to be cast out of Heaven, right?”

 

Gabriel releases a full on guffaw laugh. Aziraphale returns with the smallest of smiles, though internally he feels as if he’s about to be sick. Clearly, the humor has been obtained and understood and registered, but the laughing matter on killing one of their own doesn’t sit well with the angel. Gabriel’s guffaw turns into a hearty chuckle as he continues to read the report, almost hurt by the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t joined in on the fun. It’s a failed attempt at trying to mend a bridge that’s already been burned, but one can only assume that angels are equally as bad at conveying humor as demons are with receiving jokes.

 

“I, yes. Yes, I do.” the principality states quietly, his gaze dropping as Gabriel’s laughter subsides. There’s a long, drawn out silence before Gabriel makes a gesture with his hand and the clipboard disappears.

 

“Anything you want to say?” he asks.

 

“No. No, I rather think I’m good,” Aziraphale chokes out, “but I will be in touch as soon as I find them. Of course. Naturally.” His gaze is still averted from his boss, but he can almost feel those purple eyes and bright, perfect smile burning into his entire being. Gabriel advances, patting the angel hard on the shoulder.

“Good. Maybe you won’t be so useless after all, and we can use this to...help us forget your little ‘Failed Armageddon’ mishap.” He gives Aziraphale a curt smile, another strong pat on the shoulder, and then walks away.

 

Aziraphale stands in the middle of a large, empty room, and covers his face with his hands.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Similarly, Crowley is in Hell the morning after, sauntering all the way vaguely downwards with something of a smile plastered across his own face. He’s whistling as he makes his way into the main audience chamber; a sea of demons snarling and growling at him as he dares to enter Hell for the first time in what is probably months. He’s called ahead, of course, sending word to the Dukes of Hell to have an audience. We need to talk, it says in a scribble that’s pretty unreadable. It didn’t take long either for a reply from the masters of Hell, replying in kind; yes, we need to talk.

 

The audience chamber is familiar; three seats on a throne, and at the end of the chamber is a white bathtub. Crowley glances at it, curious for a moment before the realization sets in. He mouths ‘ahh’ as he turns to look from the tub up to the throne. Hastur, Dagon, and Beezelbub sit in silence, watching him as he approaches. Crowley gives them each a bow, smiling as they recoil at the sudden movement.

 

“There’s been an attack,” Beezlebub states as Crowley rises. The smile fades and is replaced with a curious expression. “Several of our numbers weren’t pleased with your handling of Armeggedon,” she states point blankly. Crowley gives a shrug; she’s not wrong and he can’t blame Hell for that.

 

“They set off Earth side to attack the Angels of Earth. They went after your friend.”  Crowley stiffens now as she speaks, his smile is definitely fading a bit now. Hastur recoils a bit and makes little noises of disgust as he recounts what Crowley’s done, and who Crowley seems to be now.

 

“Well, that’s...uh...I don’t know, guys. Their problem?” comes Crowley’s response, though even as he says it he can feel his chest tightening for some reason that he’s not entirely too sure about.

 

“Yes, it was,” Dagon chimes in, glaring down at Crowley. She rises from her throne and takes a step forward, “Two of them caught some angels,” she hissed, “and forced them to do...unspeakable things.”

 

“Un...Unspeakable?” Crowley says softly; confusion and wonderment filling his brain of what possible unspeakable things they could be meaning.

 

“THEY FORCED THEMSELVES TO OCCUPY EACH OTHERS BODY,” comes the exasperated and terrified voice of Hastur now as he too rises and shuffles off to a darkened corner. When he returns a moment later, he’s holding two bodies that appear to be demons tied up in a thick acidic rope. Crowley glances over at them; their bodies are smoking ever so slightly. The demon’s attention turns back to Beezlebub, recollection slowly resurfacing back to the previous night. Something about this feels all too familiar and all to...not familiar...but also not too not familiar at the same time.

 

“That’s...not right,” Crowley muses quietly. Hastur gives him a scowl and drops the bodies to the floor. They both grunt, stirring ever so slightly; one of them opens an eye and looks up at Crowley whose standing there slack jawed and in awe at what’s happening.

 

“You…” they mutter before their head slams against their chest and they pass out.

 

“We have been infiltrated by angels!” Beelzebub cries out. The horde of demons behind the glass begin to pound angrily, and even Crowley takes a step back.

 

“They willingly forced our renegade ranks to switch corporeal forms with them under the direct orders of their own Fallen Leader Aziraphale,” Dagon hisses loudly, “and this cannot be tolerated! It will not be tolerated! We will send a message to Heaven and demand our own back!”

 

There’s what feels like a long pause of static in Crowley’s brain before everything begins to slide into place. He looks at the bodies crumpled on the floor before looking up at the three Dukes of Hell. Something doesn’t feel right- wait, did they say that Aziraphale commanded the angels to swap places?

 

“I think you’ve got that all backwards,” Crowley says with a nervous laughter; it was Aziraphale who told him the first time, when they were about to die, to switch bodies. It was Aziraphale who had figured out Agnes’s prophecy just in time- but it was Aziraphale who had saved his life, right? “Aziraphale is...quite an angel but I don’t think he’s the kind to...well…” Crowley pauses. He can’t say kill, because he’s seen Aziraphale kill. He’s seen it with his own serpentine eyes; the angel killed last night just to save him. There’s a long, silent pause as the cogs in his brain begin to turn.

 

“You must go out back to Earth, Crowley,” Beezlebub shouts, breaking the demon of his train of thought, “And you must find our own. You must find them and bring them home, whatever the cost. Do this, and consider your...reckless behavior abstained.”

 

Crowley stands there for what feels like an eternity, his hand shaking as he holds his jaw with it, as if contemplating.  

 

“Yeah, alright,” he says in a cold, dead tone. He doesn’t bother looking at the two bodies on the ground as he turns and heads back upstairs.

 

Back to the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can follow me over on tumblr @ragtags if you want.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They willingly forced our renegade ranks to switch corporeal forms with them under the direct orders of their own Fallen Leader Aziraphale!”_
> 
> _The words echo in Crowley’s mind as he drives through town and back to the bookshop.  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. I heard y'all loved those angsty hurt feelings. Well, aren't y'all in luck. Next chapter will just be MORE OF THE SAME.

_ “They willingly forced our renegade ranks to switch corporeal forms with them under the direct orders of their own Fallen Leader Aziraphale!” _

 

The words echo in Crowley’s mind as he drives through town and back to the bookshop.

 

London is quiet considering the time of day (8:00pm on a Tuesday, quite unusual) but it may be for the best considering how the day has already been shaking out.

 

Crowley sits in his Bently across the street from Aziraphale’s shop. His face is torn between anger and utter disbelief. It would be a lie for him to say that he hasn’t thought about what his demonic counterparts had told him earlier. Yet as he sits, watching the empty establishment for what feels like an eternity, he can’t help but wonder if maybe his demon colleagues might be... _ right.  _ Six thousand years is quite naturally a very long time to know someone, but doubt plagues Crowley as he sits there. Aziraphale has never once shown himself to be a threat, but he would also find himself lying to his own self worth if he were to deny that Aziraphale had killed two beings last night (deep down he knows they’re demons that the angel has smote) without hesitation) right in front of him. Perhaps it’s the sudden change in Aziraphale’s nature and the current knowledge Crowley has, or, perhaps it’s just how the events of yesterday unfolded, but in either case it’s something that leaves the demon feeling a strong pit of...something...in his gut. 

 

He doesn’t bother waiting long. As soon as the figure of a rather flighty looking Aziraphale comes in to view down the street, the demon lets out a hiss and throws his car into drive, though his foot remains on the brake. He doesn’t want to drive away, no, he wants to confront the angel; wants to break him down into his core components so he can fully understand the truth of it all. He wants to know that deep down, Aziraphale is  _ exactly _ who he thinks he is, and that the demons have got it wrong. That he’s gotten it wrong. 

 

There’s a surge of something new in him that he hasn’t felt since the day he Fell; rage. It’s a slow, burning in the pit of his stomach king of thing that grows and burns up into his throat and eyes. It’s the kind of rage where humans on their worst days will sit and plot out the best ways to commit murder without getting caught; those that don’t act upon those urges are the ones living in the truest form of Hell (according to Crowley on several ocassions). There’s a very, very tiny part of him that wants to destroy everything until he can get down to the bones of the truth, whatever that truth may be. 

 

This is not to say that Crowley inherently hates Aziraphale, no, in fact it’s quite the opposite. There is a piece of the angel the demon does not yet know, and after six thousand years of knowing someone, one tends to assume they know...well, everything. This new information, this new piece of Aziraphale scares Crowley in a way that he’s never been scared before. You see, if Aziraphale can kill without hesitation when someone he cares about is in danger, what would he do if it came straight from the mouth of God? Would he defy God and Her word if She asked the angel to kill him? Or would he willingly do it, because God asked and not Gabriel. The fire in his body begins to quell as anxiety replaces what was once a pure, white hot flame. Aziraphale wouldn’t...surely, he knows his friend better than that; and after last night-- could he really be so foolish to suddenly place doubt in his mind and take the words of beings that never really cared about him? Turmoil licks at the farthest reaches of Crowley’s brain and he can’t take it. He doesn’t like being indecisive- that’s not his game. He’s cool, calculated; he knows everything that needs to be known and then some, and when he doesn’t know he just wings it. But to know some and not all and still find himself unsure is something new to him and it’s something dreadful.

 

Crowley slams a hand against the steering wheel and throws his foot on the gas pedal. He’ll steel himself away for now and return to this with a clearer head...whenever that will be. Another day, he decides as he speeds off towards home- he’ll deal with this all another day.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Aziraphale is much in his own mind as he walks back home to his shop. He vaguely hears the sound of a car zooming past but is too lost in his own mind to bother and look up. He fidgets with his hands, worried about a situation he has yet to talk about to Crowley, and it’s a conversation that needs to happen. How? He has no idea, but it’s a conversation that needs to come about sooner or later, before things...happen.

 

The angel pauses at the door to his shop, turning around as if half expecting to see Crowley walking up behind him, and half expecting to see Gabriel or Michael appearing behind him to drive some useless point further home than what they’ve already done in their previous meetings. Yet when he turns, he’s almost pleasantly surprised to see no one, just a few passersby on the street (we say pleasantly, but really he’s feeling more dread now than he did ten minutes ago). He sighs, snaps his fingers and walks in through the front door.

 

The bookshop feels...different. Not in any particular good or bad way, it just feels different. Aziraphale inhales as he looks around, giving his massive book collection a small nod before he begins to walk through, take off his coat, and head to the eastern side of the shop where his main office is. Perhaps he’s still thinking about last night, perhaps it’s the dread of what’s still yet to come with regards to the renegade angels and demons, or perhaps it’s just a tonal shift within himself that causes this drifting feeling- he’s not sure, but as he walks past the couch he had only just previously sat on, the angel pauses. He takes a moment, staring at where an indentation should be; a shaky hand coming up to his lips and gently pressing skin against skin as if in an attempt to remember a moment long since passed. There’s a momentary look of something that washes across his face and any onlooker would have thought it was sadness, or perhaps maybe a longing that he hadn’t known was there previous to this moment. The moment lingers, and Aziraphale finds himself unable to move, but then he shakes his head and it passes, and he’s striding into his back room. Those were thoughts for another day. Perhaps once this whole mess is sorted. 

 

Quietly, he hums as he meanders to the back and grabs a glass and the bottle of wine that was opened last night, settling into his seat at his desk. Again, a beat passes and he finds himself now staring at his phone, and then the glass, and finally the wine. Slowly he pours himself a rather full glass, frowning as he runs through all the possible ways he plans to bring this up in conversation. Would it be better for an in person sort of conversation, or would simply over the phone work? He supposes he could just write Crowley a letter and hand deliver it- it’s been so dreadfully long since he’s been in the demon’s apartment and he does think for a moment of the plants and how fond he is of them. Yet as he finishes filling his glass he’s decided; no, he’ll call and simply do it over the phone. Discuss the...preliminary bits and leave the important detailed bits for something in person. Yes, that’s how it’ll be done.

 

The phone feels weird in his hand as he dials Crowley’s number. He doesn’t know why, perhaps it’s just that they’ve spent so much time together over the last few weeks and months, perhaps it’s that this isn’t just your average phone call. At any rate, the phone feels somehow heavier than it has in the past, and even holding it up to his ear feels like an exercise. Is this what humans feel?

 

_ YOU’VE REACHED ANTHONY J. CROWLEY. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, DO IT WITH STYLE. _

 

There’s a frown that finds itself upon the angel’s face as the answering machine picks up. He waits a moment and giving a silent huff in to the receiver.

 

“Yes, I know it’s you. I’m calling you. Crowley? Are you there?”

 

A beat.

 

No response.

 

Aziraphale’s frown grows as he waits a moment, clearing his throat.

 

“Crowley, yes, hello. It’s me. Aziraphale. Hello. Yes, I think you know this.”

 

Again, he waits. Again, no response. The angel feels another heavy feeling growing in his stomach. He hangs up the phone and sits back in his chair, staring at it. Maybe Crowley hasn’t come home yet, he’s decided. He’ll wait a few minutes and try again.

 

The second time he dials, his fingers are a little more shaky than what they were previously.

 

_ YOU’VE REACHED ANTHONY J. CROWLEY. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, DO IT WITH STYLE. _

 

Aziraphale’s face drops as the answering machine picks up. The sinking feeling he’s felt ever since his meeting with Gabriel is back in full force and he can feel it pushing up into his throat.

 

“Crowley, pick up the phone. Where are you? This is, this is serious.” His hands are shaking but he refrains from allowing his voice to do the same. 

 

“Crowley, we need to talk.”

 

A pause, silence filling the room like an endless void. There’s no response, and the angel hangs up the phone.

 

Aziraphale sits back, hands steepling as he stares at the phone and then to his desk. It’s possible, of course, he’s calling too soon, but even still, there’s usually some sort of answer. Could Hell have really kept Crowley that long? 

 

The angel rises from his seat, still looking at the phone with worry. He begins to pace again. There are several possibilities running through his head during this, and they are as follows:

 

-Crowley isn’t home

 

-Crowley is on his way here

 

-Something has happened to Crowley

 

One more time then, he decides. If Crowley doesn’t pick up on the third time then he’ll have to go to Crowley’s flat himself and begin looking for him. Aziraphale hesitates a moment before grabbing the phone once more and dialing.

 

_ YOU’VE REACHED ANTHONY J. CROWLEY. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, DO IT WITH STYLE. _

 

“Good man if you don’t answer your phone I swear--” he begins now, angry that Crowley hasn’t picked up. The anger in his voice is quelled easily enough by the fear and anxiety that’s replacing it.

 

“Crowley,” his voice comes through weak, desperate, confused, “Crowley where are you? This is important.”

 

When no answer comes through, the angel gives a long sigh, gently sets the phone back down, and goes to grab his coat. It’s clear that something has gone terribly wrong, and the only thing Aziraphale can manage as he fumbles for his things is that Crowley is in danger, and he’ll be too late to save him this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What have you done to my angel?” comes the sting of Crowley’s already cold voice as he paces around the room, eyes deadlocked on Aziraphale. “What have you done to him? Speak now, speak true, and you might walk out of this alive. I don’t care what Hell or Heaven wants, but I will tell you right now if you in any way, shape, or form do not tell me what you’ve done to him I swear--” Crowley advances on the angel, pauses, and lifts a finger into the air; veins strain against his skin as he tries to show some restraint, “--I will end you here. And now. And take your corpse back to Hell with me and I will make sure that they all know…”_   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big HAPPY BIRTHDAY (technically belated bc i posted just past midnight after their bday whoop) to Goober!! Boy this chapter is not gonna be one that y'all are ready for. Also apologies there's going to be a change in rating in this chapter and probably go up higher from here on out...maybe. Also! Just a quick note: the beginning bits are more like cut scenes so we can all see both sides of what's going on before it all does what it needs to do! So sorry if things feel weirdly paced or out of place. It's all happening pretty much at the same time it's just cut aways to see everything. Y'all this is uh...a wild ride of a chapter so i hope you guys enjoy (better things this way comes i promise)
> 
> anyway, I heard u like angst, sadness, and just general 'why would u do this to me' feels....

Outside of Crowley’s flat a Bentley sits, and an angel feels his heart drop in to his stomach.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Crowley, meanwhile, sits in his flat and grumbles; currently, he’s seated in his throne chair, staring out the window from where his desk is, and he’s mulling. Drives, whether long or short, never do well when one is not in the right place of mind. This is no exception for the demon. The ride home back to his flat served two purposes; one was to simply ponder over his silly doubts, and the other was to put fresh new fears into his mind. He didn’t ask for the new ones, they just sort of happened.

 

For Crowley, he is positive he knows a few things about the angel that the demons don’t know. They are as follows:

 

-Aziraphale is a kind, gentle soul who stands up for injustice and is cool, collected, and steadfast

-Aziraphale has never once killed anything, even though other angels have killed for less (like children)

-He watched Aziraphale try to think of some other manner in which to stop Armageddon from happening that didn’t involve killing a child (again, something angels are known for but he refused)

-Aziraphale, while a strong willed individual with a stoic personality could not be bothered to rear up other demons and show them how to switch bodies with anyone, let alone other angels

-Also, Aziraphale didn’t really seem to trust Heaven that much after they wrote some strong worded letters about how many miracles per month he made, or for how he was ‘too soft’

 

Yet as he drives like a mad man, he can’t help but feel the tethers of creeping hesitation on what he swears he knows versus what he doesn’t. This, unfortunately, brings him to two more conclusions. Either:

 

-he didn’t know Aziraphale as well as he thought he did (couldn’t be true- they’d been so close for over six thousand years)

 

or

 

-a demon that also seemingly knew the devious trick had swapped bodies with the angel, thusly putting Aziraphale in danger and assuming a persona and teaching the other demons how to forcefully switch corporeal forms and in turn, assume different identities.

 

If we are to be fair to Crowley in his line of thinking, he’s not too far off in either scenario.

 

By the time he pulls up next to his flat and gets out, he’s already made up his mind as to what’s really happening, and plans to get to the bottom of it. With smoke leaking through his jacket he storms into the building.

\-----------------------------------------------

 

When Aziraphale enters the complex and arrives at the door to Crowley’s flat, there’s a moment of silence and fear that washes over the angel. He’s never willingly showed up at Crowley’s before and this is entirely new territory for him. He pauses at the door- he doesn’t really remember which flat is Crowley’s- but he can safely assume the one that reeks of demonic energy (much more than what he’s used to anyway) is his. There’s a long pause of hesitation- he’s not entirely sure why, but there’s a thick, acidic fear plaguing him as he stands there. What will Crowley say when the angel tells him that only last night he smote two of the demon’s associates? Would he fear the angel because of these powers? Aziraphale has made it such a strong point that he would never hurt any creature, big or small; good or evil. Yet here he stands, a mere twenty four hours later with the metaphorical blood stains on his hands and no real answer as to why, other than ‘ _it was to save you, dear. I thought for certain you were going to be killed and I couldn’t allow_ _anyone_ _to do that...not to you._ ’

 

Still he stands, arm poised and ready to knock, yet he doesn’t. Aziraphale shifts on his legs, allowing the smallest hums of worry escape his tightly shut lips. What if Crowley isn’t home? Just because the Bentley sits outside doesn’t inherently mean the demon is home, though it would surprise the angel if the demon had been kept so long in Hell that there was no need for his car.

 

He waits a moment, and then another, hoping that maybe Crowley will just simply saunter down the hallway towards him, exclaiming, _‘I went looking for you back at the bookshop! Why are you here?’_ When the moments pass and it doesn’t happen, Aziraphale knocks.

 

When no one answers the door, the angel begins to panic. He moves his hand, balled into a fist, down to his side and stares at the door as if willing it to open. It doesn’t, mainly because Aziraphale isn’t trying...not yet. He waits a minute, and then knocks again.

“Crowley?” he calls out into the already too empty, too echoey hallway. If he were to speak up even a decibel more, he may awake the neighbors sleeping baby. He knows better, and he knows just how loud, how firm he can speak without causing disruption to the other tenants. Again, he knocks, though this time it’s just a fraction louder and just ever so slightly more desperate than the last.

 

“Crowley,” comes the strained voice of the angel once more, “open up. I need to, I need to have a word with you.”

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Silence that was once plaguing the inner monologue of Crowley is found to be interrupted by the sounds of rapping against his flat’s door. He stills, listening as the first knock rings out, followed by a meek sounding voice.

 

 _“Crowley?”_ it calls out to him and the demon feels his blood still within his veins. Golden serpentine eyes begin to dart towards the window, then to the door, his fight or flight reflexes kicking in without a second thought. The ‘Imposter’ Aziraphale has found him. The demon hisses as he quells the tightening feeling in his gut; oh how this imposter would pay for harming a single perfect hair on the head of his beloved angel friend.

 

Crowley rises, a hand coming up to rake against his jaw as he wipes whatever spit has landed on his lips from the hiss. He watches the door, unsure of what his mind will do when he sees this false idol taking the form of his friend.

 

Again, there’s a knock, though this time firmer; more defined in its purpose.

 

_“Crowley, open up. I need to, I need to have a word with you.”_

 

The demon sneers angrily; whoever this imposter is, surely they have done well to mask their voice and tone to sound like that of Aziraphale. Something primal stirs in the demon as he makes his decision; something dark and black and wholly demonic. He begins to pace back and forth, snake eyes watching the door to see if the intruder to be will open it themselves or rather they leave and let him be.  

 

The demon holds a breath he does not have and waits to see what’s to unfold.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

As silence graces Aziraphale’s ears ever still, he can’t help but feel a wringing in his gut- a fear that something terrible has happened. The angel pauses at the door, his hands now resting in front of him as he fidgets with them, contemplating what to do. He wonders if perhaps he should return to his bookshop (what if Crowley is actually there, waiting for him) or would it be smarter to wait for him here (surely Crowley would come home after a time if the angel didn’t show up to the bookshop). A momentary lapse of judgement crosses his mind as he takes a step back from the door- he didn’t even leave a note! The angel groans softly at the minor lapse in judgement and begins towards the main entrance, though pausing in the main foyer. If there’s no note, he thinks, then surely Crowley would eventually return to his flat and upon returning, see that the angel has indeed come to his place! Yes, it’s perfect, he decides, turning back down towards the hallway and walking briskly now to the flat.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Crowley’s body softens as he hears the muffled footsteps from outside his flat turn and begin to leave. Maybe he’s outsmarted them after all, he thinks smugly to himself. The demon straightens, walking back towards his desk, his eyes catching on a blinking light. His phone messaging recorder seems to have several messages on it. He hums, tapping the desk with his pointer finger. He takes a beat, and then presses the button.

 

 _YOU HAVE. THREE NEW MESSAGES_ cries the voice messaging device.

 

Crowley, too lost in his thoughts, doesn’t hear the impending footsteps that are coming back down the hallway.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

The angel skids to a halt as he settles once more in front of the door, poised to try knocking at least once more before allowing himself to enter.

 

_YOU HAVE. THREE NEW MESSAGES_

 

The voice, though muffled through the door and already too electronic for his liking is loud enough for him to hear as his fist stills mid knock. The angel’s head tilts- Crowley?

 

“Crowley? Are you there?” he says.

 

 **_“...Crowley? Are you there?”_ ** says the voice recording at the same time.

 

The angel stiffens, frowning. Someone, if not Crowley, then _someone_ is in his flat. Aziraphale inhales sharply, snapping his fingers and unlocking the front door (Crowley would forgive him, surely if it meant stopping a robbery) and stepping inside.

 

There’s a beat, a single solitary moment of silence as Crowley hears the voice come from outside his flat, and from the voice recorder. Two voices from the same source; he turns on a heel, snarling quietly as he sees the shadow of the angel enter his flat, meandering down the hallway towards his ‘throne room’. Crowley takes a second, watching as Aziraphale turns a corner and sees him in the open room past the plants. The angel hasn’t noticed yet the plants shaking in pure terror as the demon advances towards them all. Aziraphale’s face is a mix of shock and relief.

 

 **_“Crowley, pick up the phone. Where are you? This is, this is serious.”_ ** comes the voice, now distant on the recording machine.

 

“What have you done?!” Crowley hisses in a manner that makes his plants freeze in terror. The room, once perhaps full of tranquility and the very distinct tense air of plants growing as best as they possibly can, is now full of something colder; darker. It’s the kind of tense feeling you get when you know you’re about to receive awful news. The air hangs still around them as the demon advances quickly on the angel, teeth bared and a rage so hot and burning at the sight of this imposter that Crowley almost forgets himself. The strides made across the room are fast- too fast for Aziraphale to react in kind- Crowley is upon him in three steps and before the angel can do anything, the snake strikes.

 

Hands come up to clasp lapels and push the angel into the wall. Fingers tightly grasp the fabric as the demon snarls angrily, using all his weight to lift the other up and hold him against the wall. This isn’t the first time Crowley’s pinned Aziraphale against a wall, but this is the first time he’s done it with such succession that the angel’s face goes from happy and relieved to terrified. Silence once more overtakes the room, save for the low growls that are coming from deep within Crowley’s throat and the now unmistakable shaking of the plants. Aziraphale finds his body also shaking at the sudden turn of events, staring wildly down at Crowley.

 

“My, my good fellow,” he manages through a terrified voice, and that’s all he can manage as the demon pulls him down so his feet can once more touch the floor. A hand, once gripping one hundred and eighty year old lapels is now curling around the angel’s neck; Crowley’s body pinning itself firmly against the angel’s as he growls lowly. The angel’s breath catches, though he’s thankful he doesn’t need to breathe, and that this act of choking is more symbolic than anything else.

 

“You don’t get to speak,” he rumbles. Golden serpentine eyes stare carefully into the blue eyes of a terrified- no, mortified Aziraphale, watching for any sign of flicker in recognition to the demon that Crowley so firmly believes is truly inhabiting the false shell of his friend.

 

“What have you done to my friend?” The words are curt, and they sting with a malice that makes Aziraphale’s stomach sour. Hell must have told him, surely, that last night two demons had been killed. The angel’s face drops, sorrow plaguing him like Hamlet upon learning that Ophelia had drowned.

 

“Oh Crowley,” he says softly, tenderly, looking into the eyes of his friend as he tries to remove the hand from around his neck, “I’m so...sorry.”

 

Crowley laughs. He pulls away, freeing Aziraphale in the process and lets out a full on hollow laugh that makes the whole room purge itself into silence. He sounds like a wailing mother in his laugh, wailing for the loss of a child or a lover but laughing all the same because it’s easier than to deal with the heartache of it all.

 

“You do not get to apologize, you filth,” the demon spits, and Aziraphale finds himself lost and confused in this exchange. What had Hell told him? What could have possibly happened in the interim from last night to this moment where the demon’s entire demeanor had changed? The angel’s shaky hands lift up to gently rub an already bruised neck (from previous lovebites, of course), tears beginning to well up in his eyes. How had things gone from so right to so wrong?  
  
“What have you done to my angel?” comes the sting of Crowley’s already cold voice as he paces around the room, eyes deadlocked on Aziraphale. “What have you done to him? Speak now, speak true, and you _might_ walk out of this alive. I don’t care what Hell or Heaven wants, but I will tell you right now if you in any way, shape, or form do not tell me what you’ve done to him I swear--” Crowley advances on the angel, pauses, and lifts a finger into the air; veins strain against his skin as he tries to show some restraint, “--I will end you here. And now. And take your corpse back to Hell with me and I will make sure that they all know…”

 

There’s a flicker of something behind Aziraphale’s eyes that startle Crowley. It’s a look of utter confusion. For both their parts, neither had expected the other to act, do, or say anything to fit the narratives they’d already begun weaving in their heads. Then, all at once, the confusion deflates into a sadness that Crowley hasn’t seen before- if this is truly an imposter then they are putting up quite the act.

 

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel manages to squeak out in a broken voice- a voice that sounds as if it’s on the brink of collapsing, a soul at the end of its rope, dangling off a cliff into a void of unknown territory. Like waves crashing against rocks, something deep within the angel is fracturing, breaking apart in ways he never thought possible. He knew his angel brethren were one to use violent force but never Crowley. He’d...Aziraphale had known the demon better than that, surely.

 

“My dear fellow, I don’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

A gutteral snarl rips through Crowley as he advances once more on the angel, pressing his arm across the other’s stomach and once more pinning him against the wall.

 

“You do.”

 

“I don’t,” Aziraphale breaks, tears trying so valiantly to not let loose. His eyes search Crowley’s in the hope that the other will come to understand.  
  
“It’s me. Aziraphale. I’m, I’m not...I can explain, dear. But please...don’t do this.” Aziraphale’s voice, no, his soul, seems to break as he speaks so softly that even God couldn’t have heard him even if She were listening.

 

This is the moment.

 

Crowley fumbles backwards, his eyes wild and the fire in his stomach burning, though less so now than what it had only moments ago.

 

“Prove it then.” he demands, staring the angel down. “Prove to me it’s you. Explain how you, ‘Aziraphale’ an angel I have known...I have _known_ for six THOUSAND YEARS, killed two beings last night without hesitation and is still here now. Explain that to me.” His words are like daggers and every one of them hits the angel square in the chest. Aziraphale leans against the wall, an arm rising to wipe away tears that he wish the demon never see from his eyes.

 

“How?”

 

“I don’t know. You tell me. _How._ Or better still, tell me something only the _real_ Aziraphale would know.”

 

Aziraphale falters, tries a moment to think of something, though his mind is clouded with grief, and confusion, and pain; God so, so much pain. Finally, with a rattling inhale he attempts to still himself enough to speak.

 

“To, to answer your first question,” he begins, shaking and leaning against the wall, “the angels...I thought, they were angels, but they weren’t. They were--”

 

“Demons,” Crowley interjects.

 

“Y,yes. Demons. I don’t know how they managed to...I don’t know how they found hosts but…”

 

Crowley finds himself somewhat satisfied, but still not convinced. “Prove to me you’re real then,” he sneers, “and tell me something only the _real_ Aziraphale would know.”

 

“Last night, we,” he begins, voice trembling as he tries to keep himself from breaking down any further than what he has, “we kissed. And we, said things…”

 

“That’s not good enough,” Crowley snaps, slithering back up close to the angel, eyes still wide and voice unnerving as he stands there, “I want _you_ to tell me something only Aziraphale would know. Tell me something only he and I would know.”

 

There’s a pause. The air is thick, and tense, and so full of emotion now as Aziraphale does his best to think of something- anything.

 

“You,” he begins again, this time with a little bit of a sniffle, “you go to fast for me, Crowley. You always have. I could never...I could never keep up.” Another sniffle. “In 1862. You asked me for Holy Water. I said no. I always said no. I wasn’t going to give you, I wasn’t going to give you a suicide pill, Crowley.” This time, as he speaks, he can feel the overwhelming sadness take over him. He can feel where Crowley’s hands had only just been, in a fit of rage.

 

Crowley, on the other hand, finds himself staring out wide eyed and mouth agape as he listens to a blabbering angel attempt to keep himself calm and collected while recounting some of their...mishap adventures. Somewhere deep in the pit of Crowley’s soul, he feels his fire extinguishing and being replaced with a sea of dread. Somehow, the more the angel speaks now, the more likely it’s beginning to seem that Crowley has made a very big, very grave mistake.

 

“I didn’t, I didn’t mean to barge in.” Aziraphale finally blurts, sleeves coming up to once more wipe his eyes, “I didn’t know what to do. I thought, I thought they’d gotten you and I- I-...” there’s a pause, an audible deep from the gut sob, and a small cough as the angel rights himself again. Calm, collected, composed. That’s...all he needs to be right now, right in this moment, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill your friends. I didn’t mean, I just, I thought…”the words begin spewing like a waterfall as the bubbling mess of an angel stands against the cement wall and tries not to heave another bone rattling sob, his face is torn asunder with grief and confusion.

 

“I--” Crowley begins, his own body now visibly shaking from the full, thick, solid realization that’s begun to settle deep within the darkest parts of his brain, and also his stomach. “But I was...but you…” He finds himself stumbling over words, trying to piece together and formulate a sentence that would have read to a normal reader as, ‘ _but I watched you kill someone last night and that is not in your character description._ ’ Instead, only a sea of half words and failed attempts at conjoining mumbled words into sentences comes out. The demon takes a step forward but stops when Aziraphale recoils closer into the wall, as if by doing so, the wall would swallow him whole just to keep him from Crowley’s firm grasp and sudden angry nature.

 

In this moment, they both have found themselves to be not who they are, or were, but who they’ve become in incredible circumstances in one, heartbreaking, terrifying moment.

 

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale says now with a slightly steadier voice, “I didn’t know that they were demons. I don’t...I don’t condone killing of any creature- not small or large, not good or evil. It was a terrible lapse in my judgement but I just, I couldn’t--” again he stops himself from saying anything, and those blue eyes are looking upon Crowley with such heartbreak that if it were true and eyes were the windows to the soul, Crowley would have seen what fragments remained in once bright vibrant eyes that he himself had almost all but shut out in one large, violent act.

 

Again, Crowley steps forward, arms outstretched as if to take the angel in his arms but Aziraphale deflects, curls in on himself and shuffles himself backwards.

 

“I don’t think...it’s wise, for me to be here,” he croaks meekly, hands now both against his face as he’s wiping it constantly with his sleeves, “I’m sorry. I’m...I didn’t mean to.”

 

With one swift movement the angel turns towards the hallway and bolts out the door, walking as quickly as he can while Crowley stands in the middle of his room, surrounded by plants that have all but begun to show signs of wilting post this harrowing exchange. Crowley, for the first time in what feels like an eternity from today, surveys the room he’s standing in, and as the door to his flat slams shut, he curls in on himself and lets out a blood curdling scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank again for taking the time to read this! I hope you guys enjoyed it! Sorry it's a bit..uh..heavy..


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...Well, it didn’t matter who he was trying to prove it to; neither God nor Aziraphale would, could hold him in the Grace that he so devoutly wished to be held in like he had before his Fall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so good to me with putting up with this angsty stuff, so I thought I would give you all a little gift; a little...break in the otherwise very sad story that wasn't meant to be this sad. whoops. also please heed the content warnings fam it's gettin' a lil lit

Crowley’s biggest sin had always been doubt. He doubted God’s love when Lucifer cried out to the angels that She loved mankind more than them. He doubted his superiors throughout the years as they proved over and over and over again that they cared about nothing other than showing the other side that they were equally as ‘great’. He doubted humanity for so long until Aziraphale showed him otherwise. 

 

Crowley’s biggest sin used to just simply be doubt. Now he sits burdened with an even bigger sin, one that he knows will never be forgiven.

 

But what is a demon, if they’re so willingly forgiven by those they’ve wronged?

 

\---------------------------

 

Crowley stalks the block that Aziraphale’s bookshop sits on. He’s been doing this for three months six days thirty hours eleven minutes and five seconds. He knows, he’s counted. 

 

It’s not the only thing he’s counted in that time.

 

He’s counted his footsteps (somewhere close to 650,000 with some missteps in between walking around people and the few times he’s fumbled on one particular corner of sidewalk that’s been jutting out of the ground and mocking him), he’s counted the people who have passed by, and how many times he’s walked past the same people visiting the same cafes; he’s even counted how many customers have been in and out of Aziraphale’s shop since their....what could he even call it? It wasn’t a falling out. Misunderstanding?

 

He tried calling the angel after their...mishap. In fact, he picked up the phone exactly eighty-six times that night, and another seventy the following morning. Each time he grabbed the phone, he’d stare at it, give off a sort of disgusted noise and slam it back down on the receiver. He couldn’t bring himself to do it; couldn’t bring himself to face the reality of what he’d done, and he surely couldn’t bring himself to look Aziraphale in the eye after that night. 

 

It was easy at first- after all, Crowley was a master at running away from things that he’d played a part in- well, in the things he’d done to Aziraphale throughout time, that is. 

 

The Kingdom of Wessex? He made a point to avoid the angel at all costs after their little spout when he’d offered an ‘Agreement’ to the angel in regards to having them falsify letters to their home offices. Aziraphale’s anger and utter disbelief at Crowley’s proposal had sent the demon into a spiral of doubt (were they not friends? Had he overstepped some kind of boundary? Had he ruined the one possible friendship by asking?) but he was lucky; Aziraphale eventually gave in shortly after the Black Plague (he got tired of trying to miracle the plague from everyone and the constant touring of Europe had both of them absolutely exhausted trying to keep up with their office demands) and they began to share the duties of both miracles and temptations. 

 

He spent most of the 19th century avoiding Aziraphale by sleeping through it. At first it was just because he was tired, and there didn’t seem to be much going on, but after their fight in St. James Park in 1862, Crowley made it a significant point to sleep through the rest of that century to avoid the angel. He was angry, because of course he’d be angry that someone he considered to be a...friend...would so easily deny him a simple request (it wasn’t simple and deep down he knew Aziraphale was right to deny it) and then call their friendship  _ fraternizing _ . Crowley remembers waking up at the beginning of the twentieth century with a scowl still on his face when he remembered the incident.

 

1941 was...interesting for them both. On one hand, it was a lovely reunion and it was probably the single stupidest thing Crowley had done when he waltzed into that church to save the angel’s life. In fact, had it not been for his mouth, the pair might have kept in touch for some time, but as they made their way home that night from the church, Crowley let slip that he was surprised all churches had Holy Water, and that they were unguarded. Aziraphale had asked several times not to bring it up, but the demon persisted. That night ended in Aziraphale storming out of the Bently, swearing to Heaven above that if the demon didn’t get off the Holy Water kick, he’d never talk to him again.

 

This made 1967 so different, and so much more heartbreaking for the pair. Crowley would remember that day for the rest of his immortal life- the way Aziraphale looked so resigned sitting next to him in the car as he passed over a tartan thermos full of the Holiest of Holy Water. Doubt spread like wildfire through the demon as he’d watched the angel excuse himself; had he stepped too far this time? Was this going to be it? A final meeting in his car with a ticking time bomb of Holy Water, a heartbroken angel and a dumbfounded demon who could only think,  _ ‘What have I done to deserve this...from him?’ _

Crowley didn’t seek Aziraphale out again until 1985 when he bought his first mobile phone. It was clunky, it was heavy, but it was an easier form of communication and he needed to make sure that his number was tucked away somewhere safe in Aziraphale’s bookshop so when he called in regards to ‘Arrangement Favors’, it would simply be a phone call away and nothing more. No need to see each other in person, no need to have these unnecessary, usually-ends-with-Crowley-wanting-to-leave-and-hide-for-a-century meetings; it was perfect. At the time, Aziraphale was confused but thanked Crowley kindly for the thought of having his own mobile device, and in the end declined the offer. So instead they made sure to properly exchange numbers, and that was it. 

 

The rest of their story came together again eleven years before the end of the world, and they had done their best to stop it from happening (and succeeded) and that seemed to be it. It felt as if, perhaps at that time, things had finally settled in a way in which maybe, just maybe, the two were safe from whatever could have been thrown at them. Crowley, for all his sins and doubts, could begin to live freely in a world that was temporarily unburdened by the thoughts of celestial war, and he could go back to living a normal, lazy life, with the ever so slightly run-in lunch or dinner with Aziraphale.

 

Of course, we know this is an unfortunate fairy tale the demon painted for himself, and as he walks down the Soho street on a particularly rainy day, he too has begun to realize that he’d painted himself in a light that was never meant to be. He was a demon, a creature that only caused havoc and destruction; he was a paradox of everything he wished and desired, and no matter how hard he fought against that and tried to better himself, to prove to...Well, it didn’t matter who he was trying to prove it to; neither God nor Aziraphale would, could hold him in the Grace that he so devoutly wished to be held in like he had before his Fall.

 

He would have, could have, and had planned to continue his watch of the bookshop for the rest of eternity if it meant that it would serve as his repentance. 

 

By month two, Crowley had become very accustomed to guarding the bookshop from the cafes across the street. He sits near the windows, a cup of tea in his hands (it’s actually Talisker single malt aged fifty years) and his eyes are glued to the front door of the shop. He’s seen Aziraphale several times come and go at various times of the day; watched how at first the angel walked with a quiet, introverted gait as if trying to steel himself away from the world, but slowly as days would pass to weeks that gait had gone back to being more or less normal. He did his best to keep himself distant enough that the angel, no matter where he was, wouldn’t hone in on his demonic presence (this simply meant he sat in multiple cafes on multiple days and weeks to hide that he was watching the place) and it seemed to have worked. 

 

As all things go when one tries to be subtle and covert, it tends to never last long, and it tends to backfire in extraordinary ways.

\---------------------------

 

Crowley pauses at the corner of his typical Monday cafe and the bookshop. It’s raining, wet and cold, and quite honestly the overcast sky doesn’t do much to help the mood. He’s attempting to light a cigarette like a human (lighters were a stupid invention- he’s not entirely sure why Hastur thought they were a ‘necessary evil’) because setting ones hands or fingers on fire in the rain to light up a smoke just didn’t seem...well, it just didn’t seem right. 

 

As the cigarette catches a flame, he inhales quickly before lifting his arm to check his watch. Currently, it’s been three months six days thirty hours fourteen minutes and twenty seconds since he last talked to Aziraphale, and even as he stands out in the rain with his sunglasses on inhaling a thick plume of smoke, he can’t even begin to imagine what that conversation would sound like. 

 

Whether it’s considered ‘divine intervention’, or ‘fate’, or just simply ‘happenstance’, it always seems to come at the worst possible time. 

 

The demon walks, as he’s known to do, down the street and smoking. The sky is grey and rain has begun to come down gently, steadily; allowing everything to glisten and mirror the sky. The weather fits the mood and although a demon, Crowley can’t help but hiss at the rain soaking through his jacket and shirt. He’s muttering to himself, cursing God and the rain and his entire being when he finds himself bumping into a passerby.

 

“Oh, sorry,” he grumbles, barely looking up from the self centered position he’s put himself in when the other’s voice hits his ears like a thousand bricks.

 

“Crowley?” comes the familiar voice of Aziraphale, standing on the sidewalk, startled and surprised, holding a tartan umbrella over his head. The demon seizes in place, turning around to face the one thing he’s done his best to avoid.

 

“Crowley, what are you doing here?” There’s a quiet, reserved look on Aziraphale’s face and Crowley looks away, ashamed.

 

“Just, out for a walk,” comes the quiet reply as he stands there, hands shoving themselves into wet pants pockets- his head still tilted away from looking the angel directly in the face.

 

“In the rain? Without an umbrella?”

 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking--”

 

“Come on then, dear. Inside. Before you catch a cold.”

 

“I’m a demon, angel,” he hisses, “I don’t catch colds.”

 

Aziraphale pauses, standing there and looking at him for a moment before nodding, as if resigning himself to Crowley’s answer. He grips his umbrella a little tighter, giving the demon a disapproving and somewhat disappointed look.

 

“At least for a cup of tea then,” he offers after a moment, and Crowley can feel his entire being go cold. Why? Why after all this, after...everything he’s done after every hurtful, cruel thing he’s done and said, why is he being invited into the bookshop? He’s a demon, unforgivable, forsaken; he doubted the only being in the whole of the universe who would never hurt him and betrayed that six thousand year trust in one simple momentary lapse of judgement based on half of the facts he knew, and yet here was this angel three months later, offering to take him in and offer him a cup of tea. This was a kindness he knew he didn’t deserve and yet deep down the indulgence of it all seemed so tempting. Crowley hesitated a moment before reluctantly nodding.

 

“Good. Come on then dear, before you get soaked.”

 

\---------------------------

 

Some things just don’t change. No matter what happens, no matter how many things are added or taken away they just don’t change. The same could be said about Aziraphale’s bookshop. Even with a new collection of books added, it always seemed to be perfectly cozy- perfectly stocked and it never seemed to be overbearing or too much. 

 

Crowley skulked towards a pile of books as they entered the shop; Aziraphale snapping his fingers and the doors lock, the shades pull themselves down, and the closed sign thumps against the glass of the front door. There’s an air of tension in the room as the demon keeps himself in the foyer of the shop, not daring to cross the threshold of the eastern half where Aziraphale’s office is. He lost that privilege when he pinned the angel against a wall and threatened him; he knew his boundaries, and he knew that there’s a chasm in front of him that he isn’t allowed to cross.

 

Moments seem like eternities as he stands there, waiting for Aziraphale to return with tea. It was painful, agonizing; if Crowley could have described this moment he found himself in, he would have simply said that it felt as if he were under a magnifying glass being burned alive by the sun, except the sun was hidden behind clouds so only a few rays could manage penetrating his soul, but even still they delivered. He hates it, and yet deep down he can’t help but revel in it. 

 

“Are you all right, dear?” comes the soft, tender voice of the angel as he finally appears with two mugs of tea. He passes one to Crowley who hesitates before taking it, nodding silently. Aziraphale gives a somewhat disapproving hum, and Crowley knows that the angel can see through the thin veil he’s attempting to put up. Still he stands there, holding the mug tightly in his hands as the angel crosses over the threshold to where his office is.

 

Silence falls over the room as they stand there, looking at each other; Aziraphale sipping his tea and Crowley just holding his mug, allowing his hands to scald on the hot ceramic. It’s tense, is it tense? Or is it all in Crowley’s mind? He’s not sure and the idea of being unsure about anything makes his anxieties worse; the second questioning is sure to come next with a follow up of doubt and then he would be right back in that circle of falling because he’s once again doubting something that’s unnecessary and he wants to run and hide and steel himself away for another century until he’s ready to properly face the angel. 

 

Somewhere in the shop a clock ticks, and each tick grows louder and slower as they stand in silence. It kills him, slowly, like being strangled in a coffin or drowning in a pool that’s only knee high; it’s possible to get out of it if you try hard enough but it’s the effort that makes it feel as if it’s impossible. 

 

“Are you going to drink your tea, or--”

 

“Why.”

 

“Why...am I asking you if you’re going to drink your tea, dear?”

 

“No. Why are you talking to me. Why did you bring me in?”

 

“Because it’s raining, dear, and it’s been-”   
  
“Three months  six days thirty one hours twenty minutes,” Crowley snaps a little too quickly. It startles them both in a way they weren’t expecting. Crowley quickly lifts the mug to his face and begins to sip at the tea which has now gone luke warm, “I know.”

 

Aziraphale stands there, silent, staring. Crowley can feel his blue eyes bearing down on him and he can’t help it, he can’t stop himself- just like in Heaven and just like every other time his mouth runs- it’s started and he can’t stop, not now, not ever.

 

“I’m sorry. Go- Sat- Someone, I’m sorry, angel,” he says, almost too quickly and equally as exasperated as he stands there, his knees almost buckling underneath him. He’s said sorry before, sure, but he’s never really meant it. He’s said it in passing, using it as a simple tool to give himself leverage in a situation (especially during Armageddon) but never has he truly meant it. Not like this. Aziraphale pauses mid sip, his gaze holding the demon’s as he takes a step forward. Crowley instinctively takes a step back, afraid. Why is he afraid? He doesn’t know, and it scares him even more.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-- I didn’t know--” he continues on, still backing up as the angel yet advances on him. Crowley can feel his hands slightly shaking, not enough for it to be noticeable, but he notices the miniscule tremors happening in his hands as he continues to step backwards, only stopping once a wall slams up against his back. Aziraphale doesn’t look mad, or upset, or hurt, or even sad, and that indifference on his face is enough to leave Crowley barely able to stand; his mind races over everything he’s done, hasn’t done over the last three months and what that means in the grander picture.

 

“I thought--Angel-- Aziraphale-- I’m, I’m just so--”

 

Crowley, for once in his long life, doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Aziraphale is closing the space between them, setting his cup of tea down on a small table that surprisingly doesn’t have books littering it yet, and before Crowley can even begin to process what’s happening his sunglasses are being removed from his face and set down next to the cup of tea.

 

“I forgive you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a voice that’s so soft, so tender, so... _ loving  _ that it sets every atom in Crowley’s body on fire. 

 

Demons are creatures that are, by definition, unforgivable. A demon cannot be a demon, surely, if they can be forgiven, right? 

 

There’s a beat of silence between them, and Aziraphale is smiling so softly, so gently, so...perfectly, and Crowley doesn’t know what to do. His hands reach out, visibly shaking now, his fingers looping around the angel’s lapels and Aziraphale flinches but Crowley is falling to his knees, holding himself together by strings. How...how could someone,  _ anyone  _ give him this? Crowley doesn’t cry; he hasn’t cried since he thought he lost Aziraphale in Hellfire when the bookshop burned down, but he finds himself on the verge now, his head hanging as he looks at the floor. He’s too scared to look up, too scared to look the angel in the face because he fears what he’ll see and somehow he knows that if he looks up then he won’t be able to control himself. 

 

There’s this noise in his head that is screaming, screaming, screaming; it’s going through every last thing he’s done from his Fall to now and the voices only grow in volume and number as he stares at the ground, trying to comprehend it all, and then there’s something on his head and then there’s silence. When he does finally look up, he sees Aziraphale staring down at him, smiling softly. The angel removes his hand from the top of Crowley’s head and instead his perfect hands are moving to Crowley’s wrists where the scars of divine rope one cut into flesh, gently, slowly pulling them off of his lapels. Crowley’s mouth hangs ajar as he looks up, trying to find words, trying to find something- anything- that could accurately represent the thousands of thoughts running through his mind.

 

“Why?” he croaks out, confused, shocked, amazed.

 

“Angels are beings made of love, my dear. It’s in our nature to forgive.” He smiles and Crowley feels his soul being torn in two, and he hates it, but he also loves it. He hasn’t realized, hasn’t put together those six thousand years of smiles into any kind of compartment that made sense, but now, in this moment, it all seems to click. 

 

“But I’m…”

 

“That, Crowley, does not mean that you are not deserving of love.”

 

Aziraphale says it so matter of factly that for a moment, for a glinting moment, Crowley believes it to be true; that he, even as a demon, deserves to be loved. It’s foriegn to him in the simplest of terms, and it’s outrageous in the most complex of terms, and he sits there, unwavering as Aziraphale brings himself to Crowley’s level, hands moving to cup the demon’s face, but they stop short of touching him. The smile Aziraphale wears now is a sad one, a broken one, but it doesn’t nearly match the conflict that’s befallen Crowley’s own. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to get across to the angel and yet he sits, crumpled on the floor of his bookshop on the brink of an emotional catastrophe that he’s clearly not used to and he doesn’t know how to stop any of it. 

 

For Crowley, divine intervention, fate, or quite frankly whatever you wish to call it, stops him from worrying too much longer. 

 

A hand reaches up, gently cupping the demon’s face and his eyes snap to attention as he holds Aziraphale’s gaze. He’s unsure of what to do, which is something completely new to him as a concept, but the angel is steadfast, leaning in and gently placing a kiss on Crowley’s lips. The kiss is too soft, too short, too perfect for words and as soon as it happens it’s over and Aziraphale is moving back and his face is sad and there’s a tender look of hurt behind his eyes that tears further into the very being that is Anthony J. Crowley. 

 

There are some things that are impossible for humans to comprehend and understand. One of them is love; the unconditional, broken, cold, multi-faceted, ornate concept that so many musicians try to put into context so mankind can touch the tip of what love is and hope that they latch on well enough to find someone that completes them and gives them a further sense of self than what they already have. For a demon and angel, love is a much more complex argument. There is a sense of eternity in love that humans just can’t seem to fully grasp, and it’s a concept that would make any poet vomit and every emo punk rock teenager from the early 2000’s swoon at the thought of an everlasting forever. It’s the kind of understanding that there’s more than just hand holding and kissing, it’s a love that transcends through time and space and it leaks into every last inch of your being as you struggle to swim in the other person’s light but are wholly consumed and you’re drowning but it’s okay so long as you’re drowning in their being. 

 

Love is deadly. Love kills. Love, as said by one slightly famous tv show once, is a vicious motivator.

 

So when the angel pulls back and looks sadly into the yellow eyes of his demon counterpart, there’s a gentle understanding between both of them that their worlds are ending and there’s no longer anything left to hang on to. But it only lasts a moment.

 

Crowley is leaning back in, his hands rising to grasp at Aziraphale’s arms and the angel flinches; they pause and there’s a moment of silence between them as the realization that there are still unfinished words to be said. Crowley sits back- tries to remember his place and remember that he’s done the unthinkable. Just because Aziraphale says he forgives him, doesn’t mean it’s forgotten.

 

“I’m...so sorry, angel,” he breathes out, looking away, hoping to distract his eyes with something on the ground (perhaps a fleck of dust) but a hand is under his chin pulling his face back and Aziraphale is leaning in again for another soft kiss and there’s still sadness and hurt in his eyes but he leans into it anyway. Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat as he leans into it, hands slowly this time moving up to cup Aziraphale’s face, and as skin touches skin he can feel the angel reflectively begin to pull back, but then he’s leaning in to it and soon enough one kiss is turning into several kisses, and hands are beginning to grasp feverishly at clothing as they desperately try to cling to each other; as if letting go for even a second would rip the very fabric of the universe in two.

 

And all at once, Crowley feels his entire being set aflame as they hold each other.

 

Crowley doesn’t cry, hasn’t cried since the day he thought Aziraphale to be dead, but as he sits there against the wall on his knees peppering the angel’s face in soft, gentle kisses, he feels one solitary tear escape his eyes. A treasonous tear rolls down his cheek only to be swept up by the thumb of an angel who finds himself smiling like a school boy swept up in a secret he wasn’t supposed to know but knows anyway.

 

Soon enough, fingers begin to interlace with fingers, and kisses grow from soft and gentle and loving to deeper and meaningful and desperate. There’s a neediness to Crowley’s kisses; they’re full of longing, and desire, and passion, and heartache. Aziraphale’s kisses match in desperation, wanting, yearning. 

 

Every fiber of the demon feels as if it might burst at any moment, as he revels in each kiss that burns his face and neck and lips. He’s doing his best to control himself, doing his best to not pick Aziraphale up and lead him to the sofa and lay him down; Crowley is holding back every last primal urge in his body to take control and bite into Aziraphale’s neck like a vampire and suck a fat bruise onto perfect skin. 

 

“I love you,” he lets slip ever so softly in a brief moment of catching his breath (which is still funny considering neither of them need to breathe, yet still in this moment it seems both are out of breath quite literally) and it catches Aziraphale off guard.

 

“Pardon?” he says softly, leaning back in, gently placing kisses on Crowley’s neck. The demon lets out a low growl of approval as he shifts on the ground, pulling the angel closer into his lap as hands begin to wander under the angel’s jacket and shirt, palming his back where wings  _ should  _ be. Crowley shakes his head, mouth open as he just allows himself to feel; allows himself to feel each bruise being left behind as he lets his angel-  _ his angel _ \- take control.

 

“Mmm, nothing,” is the delayed response Crowley manages through a thick, heated breath. Aziraphale, smiling all the while, begins to kiss down his neck, fingers fumbling slightly with the demon’s shirt.

 

“Sounded like you said, ‘I love you’.”

 

“Sounds like your hearing is going.”

 

Aziraphale smiles, blue eyes flicking up to hold Crowley’s gaze. He takes the demons mouth once more in his own, nibbling at Crowley’s lower lip, and all at once he can feel the demon succumb to the desires and lusts he’s dreamt of for six thousand years. If Crowley could, he would surely ask where the angel obtained his...skill set, but that was seeming to be a question for another day.

 

_ ‘Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, I love you, Hallelujah.’  _  Crowley thinks to himself.

 

“Come dear,” Aziraphale says after what feels like ten million eternities, “let us...go...and talk…”

 

Crowley looks up, dazed, littered in bruises that are still yet forming across his neck, and nods. Aziraphale rises, helping Crowley to his feet, and the demon leans in for one last kiss; hands still interlocked. 

 

He could be damned, he decides as they walk towards Aziraphale’s backroom office, if being damned means being allowed to fall wholly, completely, entirely into the Grace that is Aziraphale.

  
_ ‘Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, I love you, Hallelujah.’  _  Crowley thinks as he walks into the office and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley is a sad boi who has a worship kink and that's canon i don't make the rules y'all


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Enough,” he says in the calmest, stillest voice he can muster and it makes the Archangel still, if even just for a moment.  
>  “Let him go, Michael,” Aziraphale says, voice steady as he takes another step. The air in the room has stilled and gone cold, and Aziraphale’s eyes have gone from their bright blue to something darker and more feral, “he’s not apart of this.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be resolved in 10 chapters but then some of my friends decided to let me go loose and do some things I wanted to do in a separate thing so now we're going to have one big fun fest here. Also heads up this chapter is gonna get angsty

_“Angels are beings made of love, my dear. It’s in our nature to forgive.”_  
_“But I’m…”_  
_“That, Crowley, does not mean that you are not deserving of love.”_

 

The words buzzed around the demon’s head as he lay on the sofa in Aziraphale’s office, his wings outstretched and wrapped comfortably around the pair of them. They’d spent hours like this, entangled in limbs and silent words that hadn’t been said, not properly, but that held a weight the demon couldn’t even begin to fathom. Crowley’s long bony fingers found themselves entwined in Aziraphale’s curls as the angel rested on top of him; Aziraphale’s hands were gently palming the demon’s sides and feeling the slow, deliberate breath the other took even if it was unnecessary. 

They both could have, would have stayed like this forever. Crowley was already planning the counter argument against the angel if he dared demand they move from that spot in any time less than one hundred years. Crowley had a lot of catching up to do, and even with the feeling of time slowing, he knows it’s just a moment- fleeting and unpredictable and unlasting. So he does his best to live in this, this moment, like Aziraphale, and take every last millisecond of it in because once the angel shifts to go back to his business, Crowley knows that the void where the angel’s body currently resides will ache something fiercer than the flames of the sun. If he can hold onto the feeling though, he figures he can last the heat of burning suns a million times over until their next embrace.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes and he can feel Aziraphale’s body shift as he cranes his head up to look into the demon’s eyes, a small contented smile playing across his lips.

“Yes, dear?” he asks in a voice so soft that Crowley can feel his skin cracking like marble from the weight of tenderness radiating off him.

“Why?” he asks, and shifts slightly so he can sit up and prop the angel up a bit. Aziraphale’s brows knit as he tries to understand the meaning of the question.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Why did you...why _have_ you forgiven me? I don’t mean, you know…” he trailed off, gaze shifting from looking at the angel to looking at the top of his head, his hand removing itself from golden locks and twirling as if trying to further his point, “I know you said beings of love and all that but...I don’t deserve it. No demon does.”

There’s a moment of silence as Aziraphale sits up and as he does so Crowley can’t help but reflexively flinch as if to grab the angel and pull him back in. Already he can feel the cool wash of air over his chest and he doesn’t like it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins and Crowley’s eyes snap to attention as he listens carefully, “I think you misunderstand. You make it sound as if I hated you.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a look that leaves the demon’s face flustered and confused.

“Didn’t you?”

“No. Never.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Aziraphale sighs, shifting again and settling back down on the demon’s chest. Crowley exhales with a sense of relief he wasn’t aware he was waiting on, “Crowley...I am a being of love. I can sense it.”

“Yes, you told me that. I don’t see what that has to do with-”

“I’ve known for some time, dear,” Aziraphale states matter of factly and Crowley stiffens as cogs begin to turn in his brain.

“I’ve known how you’ve felt since, well, Rome. Before Rome, but I wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure. But it was stronger in Rome. And then again in Pompeii, when we were running from the volcano and we got separated. It was the strongest, I think, when I gave you that tartan thermos.” At this, Aziraphale gave Crowley a bit of a pouting look, “ I mean honestly, dear. Really? Holy Water and you fell smitten?”

“I, uh, ahh, uh, well, ahhh, mmm,” Crowley begins as he fumbles through trying to explain himself but the angel just chuckles and settles in, grabbing at the demon’s hand as he laces his fingers through Crowley’s. 

“You’re one to talk,” balks the demon after a moment and Aziraphale looks up at him, still smiling “1941? The books?” 

“Ahh, yes. The books.” Aziraphale gives a soft chuckle, “I didn’t realize until that momen--”

The sound of electricity and a thousand horns blares through the entire shop, startling the pair. A moment later, Michael is standing in the center of the bookshop and making her way towards the back room.

They’re fumbling to get up when the door swings open to the office and Michael strides in, her eyes wide with disgust and surprise as she takes in the angel and demon entangled with each other.

“What is this?” she breathed out with a thin lipped smile that held only judgement. Aziraphale sits with a start and before either of them can stand up, Michael’s hand is raised and she snaps her fingers and there’s a sound of anguish escaping Crowley’s mouth. Thick iron chains have appeared and clasped themselves around his wrists and neck, holding him in place. Aziraphale starts, standing up and walking towards Michael.

“Enough,” he says in the calmest, stillest voice he can muster and it makes the Archangel still, if even just for a moment.

“Let him go, Michael,” Aziraphale says, voice steady as he takes another step. The air in the room has stilled and gone cold, and Aziraphale’s eyes have gone from their bright blue to something darker and more feral, “he’s not apart of this.”

“He became apart of this as soon as you two began _fraternizing_ ,” she mused with that cruel smile and behind him, Aziraphale could hear Crowley snarling against his bindings that held him in place. Michael simply gave an empty chuckle as her attention on Aziraphale.

“We told you,” she began after a moment, “find our operatives. Bring them home. We meant sooner rather than later, Aziraphale. This is most unacceptable. All of it.” She gestures at the pair and the principality stills in his place. He’s begun to raise his hand, as if readying himself for a fight, but Michael is faster, clapping her hands together and summoning two angels on either side of Aziraphale.

“Treason against Heaven _and_  sleeping with the enemy? Dear, dear, Aziraphale. How ye have Fallen like our brethren. What a shame.”

There’s a moment- a solid moment where Aziraphale’s blood stills and his heart feels like it’s dropping through his body and into the floor at Michael’s words. His mouth opens, eyes wide as he’s caught off guard by what she’s just said and it takes him a minute to try and settle himself, but as he attempts to steady a comeback, the angels at his side are grasping at his sleeves and arms and holding him down. They force him to kneel, one of them going so far as to summon chains and shackle his wrists together. Michael stares down at him, smiling widely as the angel tries to fight but inevitably submits.

“You...BASTARDS,” Crowley snarls and it takes every ounce of him to not continue cursing, his corporeal form straining against the holy iron. Michael’s head snaps up as she looks at him.

“Oh, right. You’re still here,” she sneers and then sighs, “Do be a...civil demon and keep your mouth shut. These matters will no longer concern you. As it stands, you both have caused enough trouble in both Heaven and Hell and frankly it’s not our job to clean up your messes. So do yourself a favor and stay out of it.”

“I’ll kill you,” Crowley roars and Michael laughs, “I swear to Satan, and God, and every other Someone in between, Michael,” he hisses, head snapping from looking at Michael to looking at Aziraphale and then back up to the archangel, “I will destroy you.”

“I’d love to see you try,” she muses almost gleefully, settling in on her feet as the pair of guards subdue Aziraphale and disappear into thin air back to Heaven. The archangel took a step towards the demon, her hand rising to gently caress his face. Somewhere in the moment, Michael’s eyes falter, and for a second, she looks almost sad. Crowley’s teeth are bared as he strains more against the restraints.

“You used to do such good things, Crowley,” she sighs, almost disappointed at his path of life, “you created such beautiful stars alongside Raphael. The universe was never the same after you left.” Her voice is soft, distant, and it makes the fury inside Crowley’s belly grow and ache and burn and all he wants to do is end her. Yet Michael pulls back, her face hardening again as she looks at him. “You should have never befriended Aziraphale. He’s going to be punished because of you. Are you happy with that? Is that what you’ve wanted all along? Another angel in your ranks?” She gives a small pouting look and it makes Crowley go wild.

“You shut up,” he hisses, yellow eyes staring at her, his wings still outstretched as they flap helplessly behind him, “you shut up right now and I might, I might just not kill you slowly. Give him back. Give him back, NOW.”

Michael chuckles and takes a step back.

“Are you...could you be...in _love_ with him? Is that what this is?”

“Shut up and bring him back.”

“Oh my word you are. Oh Good Lord.” Again she finds herself chuckling and shaking her head. It only seems to infuriate the demon more. Michael’s amusement begins to fade as she looks around the back room. “The Heavenly influences will wear off in an hour. Don’t try to come up there. We will kill on sight, Crowley. And if I’m honest, it just feels like a waste of everyone’s time.”

She gave him a small smile as he pulled against the chains once more before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Heaven was always a shimmering white place. It was clean and sparkling and it was ethereal. Where Aziraphale found himself after he and the guards left the bookshop was not Heaven. It was dark and drab, it was still brighter than Hell but it seemed to be less bright as Heaven. The angel inhaled slowly as the guards held firm, looking around the room he found himself in. In front of him was a wooden chair and a set of chains bolted into the floor. Aziraphale gave a frown at the state of the room- something seemed off about it entirely. It didn’t feel like Heaven or Hell and it surely didn’t feel like Earth. Where was he?

Aziraphale found himself unfortunately not having to wait long. The large metal door swung open slowly as Michael and Gabriel stalked into the room. Michael wore a thin lipped smile while Gabriel looked absolutely appalled.

“You were given, one task, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said curtly, and the principality stood up just a bit straighter as the archangel approached, “and you failed. You failed at protecting Eden, so we demoted you from Cherub to Principality. And now, we ask for something simple- we ask for our angels to come home, and you...go off and get... _intimate_? With the enemy? How stupid can one angel be?”

Aziraphale recoils slightly as the archangel begins talking, listening intently as he spews off insult after insult, degrading the angel further and further until Aziraphale is looking down at the floor and deflating. Gabriel scoffs.

“Honestly, I thought you had learned! I thought you were on Heaven’s side! But now you question God?”

“I, I, I would never question God!” Aziraphale snaps, head rising and eyes pleading as he looks at both angels in front of him, “I would never...ever...question Her. And you know it.”

Both Gabriel and Michael snort and it makes Aziraphale’s brows knit together in frustration.

“You questioned us,” Michael finally says, stepping up next to her counterpart, “and that is like questioning Her authority, is it not?”

“N-no, no it isn’t.” Aziraphale defends.

“Well, I don’t think it matters,” Gabriel muses, chuckling a bit as he motions with his hands for the guards to move Aziraphale to the chair. They lead him over, forcing him to sit before chaining him up. “Either way, you have Disgraced yourself, Aziraphale, and there must be consequences for your actions.”

“I-I- consequences?”

“Normally we don’t let Fallen angels remember, but, I think you’ll be a special case,” Gabriel says, his perfect smile returning to his face as he eyes the angel up and down, “we would like you to remember every last detail of this, so when you finally Repent, you can remember what it’s like to Fall.”

There’s a silence that fills the air as the reality settles in for the angels as the principality stares at his bosses, blue eyes wide and terrified. Gabriel turns to Michael and gives a nod, still smiling.

“You see,” he begins, pacing behind Aziraphale, pausing only once he’s directly behind the shackled angel, “God hasn’t really taken the Fallen Angel’s and Disgraced them. Well, She did with Lucifer. We just followed up for all of his followers. Like Crowley, for instance.” Gabriel’s large hands slap down on top of Aziraphale’s shoulders as he chuckles, startling the angel with the touch. 

“You, you mean,” Aziraphale begins and Gabriel laughs.

“Guess I do! All those Fallen angel’s have only had their grace taken. When they can show that they can Repent then we’ll let them back in. Problem is, they’re demons. They don’t remember that we took their Grace. As far as they’re aware, they’ve Fallen at the hands of God Herself. So none of them show any true remorse or will to better themselves.”

“But then how can they get better if they--”

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Don’t try to think too much on it, okay?” Gabriel chuckles and pats the principality hard on the shoulders again before squeezing them. “You’re not like them. You have a real resolve to try and be better, but you can’t be better until you understand what it means to not have anything.”

Michael advances, pulling out something that resembles a corkscrew dagger and twirls it in her hands. She comes in close, pausing as she settles in front of the principalitiy and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“I’d say this won’t hurt, but,” Gabriel begins, laughing out loud, “it’s going to be absolutely soul crushing.”

There’s a moment of pause as cold air rushes over the bare chest of the angel before the pain of a million suns comes ripping out of his body with the slow, delicate slice of the dagger over where his heart would be. All at once there’s a sound of a thousand millions tears in the universe, and a light so bright that it burns Aziraphale’s eyes as he looks at it but he doesn’t look long because his body is screaming and burning and every last bit of him is on fire and is cold and hot all at once. He feels himself living and dying and being reborn again before being ripped apart. He feels death, if only for a moment, before they turn a blind eye and allow cold metal to continue to pierce through him. It would be a lie to say Aziraphale manages through the whole procedure. In reality, he only lasts about two minutes before the pain overcomes him.

The next time Aziraphale opens his eyes, he’s been haphazardly left in a dark alley somewhere in London. He groans, and tries to sit up but falls back on his back and lets out an anguished sigh as the night sky opens up and rain begins to fall.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They took it.” His voice is soft now, painful and sad and his eyes aren’t as bright and blue as they used to be when they look up at Crowley, searching for some sort of answer that the demon doesn’t know he doesn’t have, “Oh, Crowley- they’ve taken my Grace.”_
> 
> _“Wha-Ha-How do you mean, They’ve Taken Your Grace? Can they even do that? Do they have the power? Who did it? What does that even mean?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. Next chapter will be MUCH longer. Sorry we're back into the roller coaster of it all, y'all

Here is a list of things you should never do:   
  
-lie   
-steal   
-walk barefoot in the snow   
-wear sunglasses at night   
-leave a demon chained up alone in a bookshop for an hour

If one were to, hypothetically, leave a demon chained up in a bookshop for an hour then there would be all sorts of disastrous consequences. You see, demons are immortal beings that are always planning one step ahead for their next temptation or their next sin. They strive for moments of silent sanctuary because it helps the little voice in their head steady and formulate plans- usually creative- for their next attack. For Crowley, being stranded inside of Aziraphale’s bookshop, this gives him all the time he needs to plan his Righteous Bombardment of Heaven. He’s got it all planned, down to the very last millisecond of the last angel’s life. He plans to break free of his restraints, find a way up to Heaven, and burn it absolutely, and wholly to the ground.

The hour he’s trapped feels like eternity, but not like the eternity he felt only hours before with Aziraphale. Those were moments, he knows this, but this is an entirely new eternity; it’s long, it drags on slowly, and if he’s honest, it feels never ending. But the hour ticks by never the less and eventually the shackles are losing their glow and burning less, before falling off from around his neck and arms; and he’s up on his feet and he’s running- wings still outstretched and beautiful as ever. Night’s only just beginning to fall and the clouds overhead are dangerously close to opening up; drowning the world in a fresh rain. He curses it- all of it; under his breath he’s cursing and muttering to himself, demanding blood and justice for what’s been taken from him. Crowley hasn’t seethed like this since God destroyed mankind with Noah and the Ark (he wasn’t a fan of killing kids) but he’s seething now, standing in the center of a Soho street with his wings outstretched and hands balled up into fists. He’s not sure which way he wants to go- which way he can go, but he’ll figure it out. He always figures it out.

First though, he’s going to need some equipment. The demon inhales a sharp breath, as if filling his body with air will fan the flames licking up his belly and into his throat. If he’s going to do this (and he’s going to do this) he realizes he’s going to need to make some pit stops first. The demon turns on a hell back into the bookshop and goes to grab a pen and paper from Aziraphale’s office. He begins scribbling; it’s short-hand for several key items he’ll be needing, and they are as follows:

-Knife and or spear   
-Rosary   
-Holy Water   
-Sword (if lucky, he adds in a scribble; Sword of the Nine Rings of Hell)   
-Bones of a Martyr   
-Hellfire   
-Chalk   
-Candles   
-Aluminum Cans   
-Old Toaster   
\- Sandwich (?)

If he were any other sort of demon, he realizes as he stares at the paper, then this would be an almost impossible task. Lucky for him, most of these things can already be found within Aziraphale’s bookshop, and whatever isn’t readily available within the shop or within London is just one trip Downstairs away from being had. He smiles, and it’s empty. His heart is breaking into a million pieces and reassembling together again but this time it’s made of ice. He’s only thought about this once before- going up to Heaven and burning it down- it was the day Aziraphale’s bookshop had burned to the ground. He’d had a suspicious hunch the Angels had something to do with Aziraphale’s death (he did later find out that Shadwell had done it, and that it was only a corporeal death, not a Real Death) and was prepared to go toe to toe with them after having several very expensive bottles of Talisker Single Malt Whiskey aged 25 Years. Lucky for him, Aziraphale had shown up and explained everything and the demon restrained himself from doing anything irrational.

But that was then and this is now. Crowley knows who to point the blame at and he’s ready. He’s always been ready. Crowley was fine with being damned if it meant spending the rest of his eternity bathed in the Grace and Light and Love of Aziraphale. Without his angel, Crowley knows, there’s no end to stopping his Wrath.

He snaps his fingers as he walks through the doors of the shop and back out onto the streets of London; the old doors slamming shut and locking behind them. He vows, quietly, that when he’s done, he’ll make sure the shop is put in good hands.

\-----------------------------------------

Crowley decides he’ll start with the easy things off the list first. Those would be things that don’t require a trip to a church or to Hell. Aluminum cans, chalk, candles, and maybe a sandwich all seem fairly easy enough. Or at least, like most things, they seem easy until put into practice.

It takes the demon two and a half hours to secure almost all the materials he’ll need for his trip to Heaven- currently he’s rummaging through bins looking for a few more aluminum cans (for backup, he tells himself) before he plans to stop off at the bookshop and then go pay Hell a visit. It’s weird, he thinks, that he’s been having so much trouble finding enough cans- one would assume at how Great Britain consumes beans on toast, there would be a huge influx of cans just laying about.  His journey takes him from Soho to Covent Garden, head and body diving into each possible dumpster like a raccoon searching for dinner- he even has his own large garbage bag full of items he’s found slung over his shoulder like some sort of Garbage Santa Claus. He’s grumbling as he turns a corner into an alley, preparing to give up his search for the night and resume in the morning for that last aluminum can when something catches his eye.

It takes him a moment- he pauses at the end of the alley and peers down it- there’s a man thrown into what appears to be a large body of trash bags.

“Oi, mate, you good?” he calls out, voice flat as he lifts his chin to try and get a better look at the figure at the other end of the small back street.

“C..rowley?” the voice responds, distant, painful. 

If time had managed to slow down, if time could have slowed down just enough to catch emotions that registered across Crowley’s face in the time it took the stranger’s voice to say ‘C..row’, time would have surely won an Oscar for best use of...well, itself. The demon is rushing to the angel’s side long before he can even finish his name, the overstuffed bag of junk thrown to the side of the street as he kneels down and scoops his angel up in his arms. It takes a solid minute for Crowley to register what’s happening, but he can only find himself pulling Aziraphale into a hug, coddling him gently against his chest as they sit on the ground (Aziraphale still half laying on the trash bags).   
  
“Angel,” Crowley manages, out of breath and yellow eyes wide as he holds the other gently in his arms. Aziraphale gives a small smile and a shake of his head. Any joy or smile or relief that may have flooded Crowley’s face at that moment drains from him as he stares down at Aziraphale, confusion being the only thing that properly registers.

“Not anymore, I don’t think.”

“What do you mean, not anymore? Aziraphale what have they done-”

“My Grace.”

There’s a rock forming in the center of Crowley’s stomach as he tries to process what’s been said.

“You’ve Fallen?”

“No, no...well, yes, sort of..” Aziraphale says, inhaling sharply as he tries to sit up, only to be washed with a searing pain. Crowley is there, arms tucking under the angel’s back as he tries to steady him up.

“What do you mean, sort of?” the demon hisses, his blood running cold at the mere thought of it all.   
  
“They took it.” His voice is soft now, painful and sad and his eyes aren’t as bright and blue as they used to be when they look up at Crowley, searching for some sort of answer that the demon doesn’t know he doesn’t have, “Oh, Crowley- they’ve taken my Grace.”

“Wha-Ha-How do you mean,  _ They’ve Taken Your Grace?  _ Can they even do that? Do they have the power? Who did it? What does that even mean?”

Aziraphale shifts, frowning a bit as he tries to sit up once more, wincing at the pain surging through his body. He looks at Crowley almost embarrassed, and a moment later his wings are spreading out for the demon to see. Crowley stares, mouth hung open at the sight. What were once beautiful, white angelic wings, are now grey and dull- they hold no sheen, no brilliance- they just...are. Crowley stares a moment, looking at Aziraphale’s wings before turning his attention back towards the angel.

“Wh--Ha--How?” he asks.

“Apparently,” Aziraphale begins dryly, “the Archangels are...capable...of removing an angel’s grace. Do it properly and you get...well,” he pauses, giving Crowley a once over before gesturing at the demon with his hand. Crowley recoils a bit, hissing at the accusation.   
  
“Me?” the demon balks.   
  
“Yes. I don’t know, they didn’t properly explain to me how they do it, but, they replace your Grace with whatever it is demons are made out of.”   
  
“And you’ve got that then.”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Sorry, what do you mean, ‘no’?”   
  
“I mean,” Aziraphale sighs, shifting once more as he rests a little more comfortably against the demon and the trash bags, “they didn’t replace my Grace. They didn’t fill the void. I’m…” he trails off.

“Human? Are you human?”

“Humans don’t have wings, dear.”   
  
Crowley recoils slightly at Aziraphale’s words- he knows human’s don’t have wings, he’s not stupid; but what else could it be? The demon slowly, gingerly, reaches a hand up and begins to softly caress Aziraphale’s feathers. Long, bony fingers trace along the edges of feathers before plunging in to get a better feel of them- to see if perhaps deep down there’s still some fresh, silken growth of white hidden amongst the grey. When Crowley pulls his hand back out of Aziraphale’s wing, he finds himself holding a clump of feathers. Both sit there, horrified.

“I-I-I-I didn’t mean to!” Crowley stammers, staring at the large clump of feathers in his hand.   
  
“I know,” breathes the angel as he too stares at Crowley’s hand. Slowly, Aziraphale lifts his hand to his wing and begins to rub at the feathers, and as he applies pressure they both watch as larger clumps begin to detach and flutter to the ground.    
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale says after a moment, the realization sinking in.

“Oh?” Crowley manages, yellow eyes still staring at the grey wings. 

“I’m withering, Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, his voice shaking as he allows the words to fall from his mouth. “They’ve taken my Grace in hopes that I Repent; fix my wrongs. Then they’ll return it to me. But if I...If I can’t do it, then….”

“No.” Crowley says and he doesn’t say it as though it’s his opinion; no, he says it as pure fact. “That’s not happening.” The demon inhales, his long arms coming up under Aziraphale as he scoops the angel up into his arms.

Crowley does something he knows he probably shouldn’t, but at this point he doesn’t care. You see, angels and demons are able to shift themselves through time and space- something similar to a short range teleportation. Alone, they can do it with ease, and pop across the world in mere minutes. Doing this little trick with another who can’t, well, that can take some time and effort. Crowley carries Aziraphale over to his garbage bag of items, picks it up, and with all of his energy manages to transport the pair of them and the bag back into Aziraphale’s bookshop. The bag of items is cast to the side as Crowley, now on shaking limbs, carries his angel to the sofa and sets him down before collapsing next to him on the floor. 

He sits there, his head in his hands as he tries to think. Aziraphale lays on the sofa, his hand eventually lifting up to gently card his fingers through Crowley’s hair. The demon pauses, sighing as he leans back into it, unsure of where to go from here.

“Your...people,” the demon finally says after what feels like hours, “renegades? They went missing, yeah?”

“Yes, that’s correct dear,” Aziraphale replies, voice distant as he finds himself in a time locked repetition of running his hand through Crowley’s hair.

“And, supposing you...find and return them,” Crowley hums, his brain beginning to turn the lights on as an idea begins to form, “you could get your Grace back, right?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know, honestly. I don’t even know where they are.”

Crowley pauses a moment, sitting up straight and turning to face Aziraphale.

“I do.” There’s a look of hope flush across his face now as he looks at the perplexed angel who is also now sitting up a little straighter to look his friend in the face.

“You what?”

“Yeah. I think I know where they are. I can get them, bring them to you. You can return them and get your Grace back.”   
  
“Do you- do you think that would work?”   
  
“It’s worth a try, angel.”

There’s a silence that overtakes them both for a moment as Aziraphale contemplates it all.

“I don’t know--” Aziraphale begins but Crowley is already starting to get back up on his feet, shaking his head and grabbing the angel’s hand in his own.

“Leave it to me, angel.” he says, yellow eyes staring down at Aziraphale.  _ Leave it to me _ , he thinks, _ because when I’m done with all of them there will be no distinction between Heaven or Hell. _

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Crowley says as he let’s go of Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel is looking up at him with fear in his eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“Going to see a demon about a dog,” Crowley says lowly, his facial expression dropping as he turns to the door. “Don’t let anyone in or out until I get back.”

Aziraphale tries to protest, tries to reach out and grab for Crowley’s jacket but the demon snaps his fingers and is gone. 

Heaven and Hell would surely pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr at ragtags.tumblr.com


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